


Equivalent Exchange

by writingfromtheshadows



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, False Identity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Magic-Users, Minor Character Death, Politics, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2018-10-31 23:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 176,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10909491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfromtheshadows/pseuds/writingfromtheshadows
Summary: Without the Katsuki line to protect and maintain the laws of magic, Great Mages have become so few and far between that many believe the age of magic is coming to an end. However, when he comes across a young man weaving tales with figures of fire, Viktor begins to wonder if magic is truly dead, or if it lives on in the body of the storyteller with warm brown eyes.





	1. the storyteller

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this is my official dive into writing for the YOI fandom! I tend to gravitate toward writing big AU's, but for a while this idea felt like it might be a bit too big for me to tackle. However, the plot bunny would _not_ leave me alone so here we go!
> 
>  **Edit:** While working on Chapter 3, I realized this fic works better in present tense so I went back and changed Chapters 1 and 2 to read in present tense instead of in past tense and also did some minor tweaks/clean-up

Noises and smells assault Yuuri from every direction, threatening to drown out his sense of being until he is just another piece of the massive crowd milling through the city. He adjusts his glasses, making sure the lenses are centered over his eyes so they can help him manage the rush of information that always surges over him whenever he leaves the comfort of his small village.

When he first arrived in this kingdom, the sheer noise of the crowd from outside the front gates of the capital was enough to drive him back to his cottage empty-handed, but five years was a long time to let himself adjust to the bustle of Kievan life.

He weaves in and out of the crowd; past the foreign traders that are in town to take advantage of the holiday week, past the tourists who have an unfortunate proclivity for blocking traffic, past the few natives that recognize him and call out greetings, until he is near the center of the market.

Here, there are fewer merchant stalls and more open space; the larger fountain that marks the heart of the Lower City breaks up the monotonous blob of the crowd. Yuuri only spares the fountain a passing glance, eyes sliding over the depiction of Maeve (the goddess of victory), before he makes his way to the large oak tree just to the right of the statue.

Yuuri settles into a seat at the base of the tree and begins unpacking the contents of the small sack he carried with him on his trip to the city. The Midsummer’s Festival is a great draw for business of all kinds, but the process of packing up goods from his small shop, hiring a cart and a donkey to drive his fares to the capital, and then trying to maneuver through a crowd with no regard for if his goods were damaged in the chaos, is worth more trouble than any sales might be worth. Instead, Yuuri travels light and sits in the exact same spot he has occupied during every festival for the past five years.

Already, he can see people recognizing him.

Young children tug on the legs of their parents’ trousers, pointing in Yuuri’s direction. A pack of older kids (likely some sort of gang) are taking seats just a few feet away from Yuuri, eyes sharp as they watch him prepare.

The contents of Yuuri’s sack are relatively ordinary.

He pulls out three silk ribbons (exclusively used for these events); the bright hue of their dye a testament to how much Yuuri paid for them. On either side of the ribbons, he places two ceramic bowls. In one bowl, he pours water from the skein he carried, in the other he dumps a small pile of hay. Next, is a shallow plate, set slightly apart from everything else for coins from any spectators.

Last is a box of matches, and as Yuuri picks a match from the set, he glances up at the small crowd that has gathered around him.

As always, a flash of terror ripples through Yuuri’s body. His eyes flick across the closest faces, looking for the smallest indication of hostility from any of his watchers. This day is always lucrative for him; the number of coins tossed his way is usually enough to tide him over when winter hits and travel is slowed to a halt. But the risk, the possibility that someone might realize what he is really doing, that someone might know who he is, makes the split second before he starts stretch out into what feels like a century.

Wind flutters through the square, billowing the clothes of the bystanders and ruffling through Yuuri’s hair. It swirls around his face, providing a moment of comfort, telling Yuuri that he isn’t alone, before settling at his back to rustle the leaves of the tree.

Yuuri smiles slightly and lets his eyes close, sending a thrum of gratitude to it.

Taking a steadying breath, he pulls off his glasses and sits them in his lap before he reopens his eyes. Colors flare in his vision; most of them the brilliant green of nature or faded purples of weak magical charms (bought from midwives and traveling witches). He is relieved to note the absence of brighter purples, much more so the lack of reds or blacks, and it is all the push he needs to get started.

Holding the match upright in front of his face, Yuuri pitches his voice so it carries to his audience, “If you have the time to spare, I’d like to tell you a story.”

Yuuri drops the match into the bowl of hay and it immediately flares up in a blaze, reaching higher than his head before flattening into a more natural flicker.

There are murmurs from the crowd as Yuuri claps his hand together, “Before the days of kings and queens, before there were champions or knights, there was a man named Oran. You may know him as the Lightbringer.”

He stretches his hands over the bowl of fire, feeling the lick of the flames as they reach toward him, brushing along his palms and curling over his fingers in greeting. The warmth feels like a friendly embrace, and Yuuri presses his hands lower until they are covered in the fire, ignoring the shouts of terror from the bystanders as he pulls and twists the flames until they begin to form a shape.

Yuuri scoops the figure out of the flames so it is standing in his outstretched palms. The flames dance within the small shape, but two legs, two arms, and a head are clearly distinguishable. The figure straightens, flexing its arms, before taking a bow to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the fire’s showboating, Yuuri launches into his story.

 

* * *

 

“This is a horrible idea!” Yuri shouts over the din of the crowd, for what is likely the fiftieth time in the last hour.

Viktor comes to a stop and whirls on his heel so he can flash a bemused grin at his squire. He waits for Yuri to get within speaking distance before saying, “If you don’t like it, you can go back to the palace.”

“And let you get murdered in some back alley? I don’t think so.” Before Viktor can so much as open his mouth to suggest the young noble might mourn his death, Yuri continues, “If you got murdered it would be a miracle if I ever get knighted.”

Viktor laughs, “You really should relax a bit, Yuri, it’s a festival. No one will even recognize me.”

“It’s a festival that you’re not supposed to be at,” is the retort as Yuri flashes a disdainful look at a group of young girls openly gawking in their direction, “and if we get caught, it’s my head in the noose.”

“Stop talking so loudly about the palace and we won’t get caught,” Viktor points out, turning his back on Yuri and setting off, not giving the boy a chance to reply.

It is refreshing to be out in the capital without his bodyguards acting as a living wall between him and his people, without the circlet around his head putting him in a different plane of reality from those around him. Here, in the market for the Midsummer’s Festival, Viktor is just another reveler, marveling at the fares displayed as he tries his best to keep his purse from getting stolen. Here, if he is too slow to move out of someone’s way, loud-mouthed merchants curse him. Here, he gets solicited by the women with carefully painted faces that stand near the alley mouths. Here, he has been told to ‘get a move on’ by at least one city guard.

Viktor can’t remember the last time he felt so free.

He moves away from the bustle of merchant’s row; which is so crowded he can hardly breathe, and toward the center of the marketplace. By the fountain of the patron goddess of Kiev, there is a small crowd gathered, all focused on something out of his sight.

Curious, Viktor makes his way closer, straining just enough that he can hear someone speaking from the center of the circle.

“It was then that our hero realized what he must do.”

Viktor slides between a gap in observers so that he can see what the commotion is about. Seated on the grass, in the shade of a tree, is a young man. His pitch-black hair is pushed back and glistens with droplets of water, his brown eyes sharp on the scene before him. Viktor runs his gaze over the man’s lips, fascinated by how they move with each word that leaves his mouth, by how the corner closest to Viktor is upturned in amusement. Gasps sound around him and Viktor drags his attention to where the man’s focus is so that he can understand what is going own. He lets out a soft gasp of his own.

It is magic.

There was a time when the sight wouldn’t be such a rarity, when magic users were as plentiful as cobblers or carpenters, but that age had died out long before Viktor was born. In current days, the most magic a person is likely to see in their lifetime is a village midwife blessing a simple charm. By virtue of being raised in the palace, Viktor has seen the Royal Mage perform magic once or twice, but that had been nothing like this. The Royal Mage performs magical workings with a clinical sense of detachment, focusing on each step with a gravity that takes all the wonder out of the magic.

But now, before Viktor’s eyes, a man made of flames is battling against a creature formed from a cyclone of water. The droplets lunge at the figure, and a miniature blade of wildly flickering fire counters each attack to the cheers of the audience. Even the grass seems to sway in response to the battle, flattening in one direction or the other in response to the attacks as the man’s voice narrates the events.

Beside him, Viktor is aware that Yuri has finally shoved his way to his side, and judging by his silence, is every bit as awestruck as Viktor.

The story is a familiar one.

Viktor had listened to the epic of Oran the Lightbringer as often as he could convince his mother to tell it when he was a child. He lets the pleasant cadence of the storyteller wash over him as he watches the flame figure be driven toward near defeat. Suddenly, the wind picks up, causing a trio of silk ribbons to dance around the scene and drive the water tunnel apart.

The fire figure takes a bow and vanishes in a puff of smoke. Applause breaks out around the circle and Viktor finds himself joining enthusiastically. Coins are tossed into a small plate next to the man as the crowd disperses. The man keeps his eyes down as the onlookers begin to trickle away, all chatting excitedly with each other but none of them seem interested in the man who is behind the spectacle.

“Yuri,” Viktor says, giving his squire a bright smile, “can you go get me a snack?”

On just about anyone else, his smile would have made them immediately amenable. Yuri, however, scowls at him, “If you wanted a servant you should have stayed at the pal-.”

Viktor’s hand clamps over Yuri’s mouth: they are much too close to the storyteller for such a thing to go unnoticed, “Get me a snack and I’ll be ready to go. Please, Yuri.”

Blue eyes narrow and Yuri glances from Viktor to the storyteller. After a moment, he lets out a huff of air and nods. Viktor pulls his hand away and Yuri mutters, “There’s no sense in talking to him, you’ll never see him again.”

“Snack, please!” Viktor says, ignoring Yuri’s comment.

The boy rolls his eyes and turns around, slipping into the crowd with the ease borne of a slender figure and years of combat training, searching for a food vendor. Viktor watches him go, waiting until Yuri is definitely out of earshot before he returns his gaze to the storyteller. The storyteller is packing up the items he used for the performance with brisk movements, his eyes still downcast even as the clink of coins in the plate continues to pour in.

Leisurely, Viktor crosses the space between them and digs into his belt purse, pulling out two coins before kneeling on the grass and holding them into the storyteller’s line of sight, “That was incredible!”

Brown eyes fly up from the ground to stare at the coins for a long moment. They blink, the storyteller’s brow wrinkling in confusion as he grabs for a pair of spectacles settled on his lap. He shoves them on his face, and Viktor watches with fascination as a flush spreads across the storyteller’s cheeks before he meets Viktor’s gaze, “Thank you, but I can’t accept those.”

Now that his story is over, the man’s voice is much softer, hesitant, (adorable, even). But his refusal makes Viktor tilt his head in confusion, “Why not?”

“It’s too much.”

The storyteller glances at the plate of coins and Viktor follows his line of sight to see that most of what he had received were bronze pieces. Glinting between the brown are a few flashes of silver, but there isn’t a single gold coin in sight.

It is a travesty, Viktor thinks. He can’t put a price on the unbridled joy that had woven through his body as he watched his childhood hero come to life in the fire. If the storyteller would take it, Viktor would offer the man half of the coins in his purse (maybe even all of them), but judging from the way that the storyteller leans back from the two gold coins Viktor is holding, he might be better off to find a smaller amount.

“But it was the best thing I’ve ever seen!” Viktor isn’t able to resist pressing just a little further.

The storyteller’s face flushes an even deeper shade of pink and he shoves the ribbons into his pack, “It’s just a street performance.”

Viktor hums thoughtfully and puts the gold back in his purse, fishing out four silvers in replacement, “Will you take these? I insist.”

Brown eyes flick back up to Viktor’s, and Viktor is struck with the fleeting feeling that there is something familiar about the sharpness in the storyteller’s gaze, before the man gives him a rueful smile, “I take it you won’t let me go until I accept.”

Viktor grins, “Of course.”

A hand is held out and Viktor presses the coins into the man’s palm, “What’s your name?’

The storyteller hesitates, tongue flicking out to lick his lips before he murmurs, “Yuuri.”

Yuuri.

His voice lingered over the vowels, drawing them out in a way that makes Viktor think he can hear just a hint of an accent, despite Yuuri’s flawless Kievan. Even if it is identical to the name of his short-tempered squire, Viktor thinks that Yuuri makes them sound leagues apart.

“It’s nice to meet you, Yuuri. I’m-”

“Viktor! I got your dumb snack, let’s go now!”

The angry shout comes just a foot behind Viktor, startling them both. Viktor had all but forgotten they are currently in the middle of the marketplace on one of the busiest days of the year. The consistent rumble of the crowds is easily drowned out when Viktor is so captivated by Yuuri’s voice, and he is loath to have the spell broken.

Yuuri glances over Viktor’s shoulder, frowning slightly as he takes in the sight of the young squire stomping in their direction.

Viktor waves his hand, turning his back on Yuri, “Ignore him, he’s always angry. How did you do that with the fire figure? I’ve never seen that type of magic before.”

“It wasn’t real magic, idiot. It was a trick.” That is Yuri, now within normal speaking distance and probably prepared to try and bodily drag Viktor back to the palace if he doesn’t leave soon.

Yuuri picks up the plate of coins and begins to pour them into a small purse, his voice seems to get even softer as he says, “It was just a trick my parents taught me.”

“I thought it was wonderful!” Viktor says, hoping his enthusiasm helps balance out his squire’s unique gift for crushing people’s spirits. Really, Yuri will have to work on that if he wants to become a respected knight, “Do you perform here often?”

“Just for the big festivals. I live near the woods, so I don’t make the trip too often.”

Viktor’s smile widens, pleased to hear that Yuuri at least lives in Kiev, that he isn’t one of the traveling storytellers or vendors that will leave once the week is done and not return until the next year, “Really? What do you usually do?”

A sticky bun is shoved in Viktor’s face, blocking his view of the storyteller as Yuri snaps, “Hey! You promised you would be ready to go now and you’ve wasted enough time with this hoax. If we don’t get back to the pal-”

“Okay!” Viktor jumps to his feet, shouting to drown out the end of Yuri’s sentence; not missing the slight smirk he got in response that indicates Yuri had done that on purpose. He makes a mental note to be sure their next practice session is particularly brutal, in repayment, and smiles down at Yuuri, “I have to go, but it was nice to meet you, Yuuri. I hope we see each other again!”

Yuuri’s brows wrinkle again, and Viktor doesn’t think he has ever met anyone that managed to look so cute when they were confused. He wonders what about his statement is puzzling, but his smile doesn’t falter as he waits for Yuuri’s response.

“Uh, right. It was nice to meet you too, Viktor.”

That small sentence, spoken as the corner of Yuuri’s mouth quirks up in a hidden smile, carries Viktor back through the crowds of the city and to the palace gate. It helps him float past the disapproval of his guard and the hour-long lecture he receives from the Royal Advisor. Viktor can’t find it in him to feign regret for the ‘reckless and improper behavior that is utterly unacceptable for a crown prince’, not when he can still feel the warmth that seemed to radiate from Yuuri’s entire being, an almost tangible extension of the small flame figure that had danced and leapt as if it was alive, ignoring all the laws of magic that Viktor had been taught as a child.

Yuuri had said he lived near the forest; the closest one with a village nearby was just a few hours ride on horseback from the capital city.

In his head, Viktor is already mapping out the soonest he can sneak out and search for the storyteller again.


	2. the wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Viktor's second meeting doesn't go as smoothly as the first.

_Smoke pours into Yuuri’s lungs, pressing in on him from every side and forcing coughs to tear through his throat, making his entire body shake. It stings his eyes, making them water, and he tugs off his glasses to rub the tears away._

_He can hear someone screaming. No, more than just one person. It sounds like half the village is crying out for help, and his legs beg him to move toward the closest call so that he can magic away their suffering._

_But he can’t, the grip around his wrist is relentless; the pull forward, away from the chaos, is too much for someone of his stature to resist._

_Coughs tear through his body again, and Yuuri tries to stop. He needs to catch his breath. He needs to go back and find his family. He needs to know what is going on._

_“We have to keep moving, Yuuri!” There is a gentle yank on his wrist, and it pulls him forward again, “we have to get out of here.”_

_“But-” he can’t speak around the smoke in his lungs. Coughs leave his body again._

_Thunder crashes into his consciousness, echoing through the trees and rattling Yuuri’s bones. He pulls against the tug on his wrist, “Wait! It’s going to run!”_

_“What?”_

_“The thunder, don’t you hear it? The rain will stop the fire!”_

_“There is no thunder, Yuuri. Come on!”_

_Another crash and Yuuri frowns, squinting up at the sky. It is sunny, the few clouds in sight are wispy, it’s not the right weather for a thunderstorm._

_Heat swelters around him, rising hotter at his back as more of the forest catches on fire. The screams are fading quicker than his legs are carrying him away from his home, and he feels tears stream down his cheeks as he realizes why that is happening._

_“Wait! We need to go back! We can’t just leave them!”_

_The pulling on his wrist stops and the woman whirls around, kneeling so she is eye-level with Yuuri. To his surprise, her eyes are bright, streaks run down her cheeks and through the soot on her face, “They’re gone, Yuuri. We can’t do anything to help them.” More tears well in her eyes, “I’m sorry. All I can do is make sure you live. Your mother…she made me swear I would help the Katsuki line survive.”_

_“No,” Yuuri’s voice catches in his throat, “no, no, no! It can’t- they can’t be…you’re lying!”_

_Thunder rolls through the clearing again, and again, echoing in such quick succession that it tears Yuuri’s attention away from the sudden ache in his chest as he tries to understand what was going on. It almost sounds like someone is knocking…_

Yuuri sits bolt upright, gasping for air.

Frantically, he reaches for his glasses and shoves them on his face, slumping back into his bed as the lenses block all the extra feedback his eyes receive so that his surrounding can come into view. He is in the room at the back of his small shop, the one where he has lived for the past four years.

Knocking pounds on the front door, and he tumbles out of bed, rushing to answer. The sky is beginning to turn pink, rays of sun just peeking over the horizon.

Yuuri blinks up at the flustered face of the baker who lives just a few doors down, “Nishigori?”

“My wife. She went into labor.”

All traces of grogginess are instantly banished in the face of the man’s need, and Yuuri forces himself to shake off the vestiges of his nightmare as he turns on his heel, “give me a minute to get my supplies.”

“Thank you so much, Yuuri,” Nishigori says, following Yuuri inside. Yuuri can hear the wavering in the man’s voice, his nerves practically tangible.

It is only normal for a first-time father to be anxious about childbirth, even more so when his wife is bearing triplets. As he moved quickly around the room, packing herbs and medical supplies, picking up a talisman here or a salve there, Yuuri tries to put himself in the baker’s shoes.

There was a time when close proximity to a magic user was a guarantee for most people living near a major city, and during those times childbirth was relatively low-risk. In present day, the number of mages with enough power to prevent death during birth is minimal, and while complications aren’t overly common, enough of them happen that the loss of magic is sorely felt when preparing for birth.

And that is simply for one child.

If Yuuri hadn’t happened to settle down in this tiny village near the Kievan capital, it was safe to assume at least one of the triplets wouldn’t make it. Of course, the Nishigoris don’t know Yuuri had enough magic to make a difference, all they know is that he is a decent healer, and that is how Yuuri needs it to remain.

With his bag packed, he follows the baker out of his cottage and past the few homes that separate his shop from the bakery. The Nishigoris live on the floor above their baker, and inside the largest room Yuuko is laying on the bed, her mother-in-law clasping her hand and wiping her forehead with a rag.

“Oh, thank goodness, Yuuri is here,” Yuuko says, her eyes immediately lighting on him when he enters the room. She gives him a tired smile before directing a glare at her husband, “I told him to get you almost an hour ago.”

“It’s not even dawn, I didn’t want to wake him.”

Yuuri smiles at Yuuko and kneels next to the bed, “Since I arrived before the triplets, I’m right on time. How are you feeling?”

“Is that a trick question, Yuuri?” He chuckles at how spirited his friend is, even now, “I feel horrible.”

“Right, right.” He digs into his bag and pulls out a small mint leaf, passing it through his fingers until it glows a dull gold in his Sight, “Suck on this for me.”

The mother-in-law glances curiously at the leaf as Yuuri presses it onto Yuuko’s tongue, “What will that do?”

Yuuri gives her a slight smile before turning to rummage through his bag some more, “It will help ease the pain a little, just enough that Yuuko will be able to concentrate.”

“Mint? Really?”

“It’s helping already.” Yuuko sighs, her head dropping back onto the pillow, “I don’t know where you were during my childhood but I could’ve used this then. Yuuri, honestly, I love you.”

He laughs louder this time, pulling out the tools he will need and resolutely ignoring the piercing stare of the older woman. The mint does nothing but provide a pleasant taste, something to occupy Yuuko’s mouth, and a carrier for Yuuri’s basic pain relief spell. It is second nature for him to mask all of his magic use, particularly any of the traditional variety. Even if the chances are slim of his magic being noticed, it is safest for anyone he knows if he avoids drawing attention.

When he finishes setting up everything he might need, Yuuri caught Yuuko’s gaze, “Alright, let’s get these babies out here, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

It’s almost impossible to fall asleep in the council chambers.

The seats are stiff and uncomfortable. The braziers stationed around the edge of the room do little to drive away the brisk temperatures that plague the kingdom, even in summer. There is no place to hide from the harsh scrutiny of the nobles and merchants who are allocated seats within the power center of Kiev.

These difficulties are only scratching the surface for Viktor.

As crown prince, it is unthinkable for him to take a quick nap, regardless of how dry some twenty-minute speech on crop sustainability somehow manages to be. Viktor’s clothes are rigid, forcing him to sit up in a particular way; the crown on his head is beautiful (masterfully wrought gold vines intertwining) but after more than an hour of wear it starts to feel too heavy, threatening him with a headache. His position in the chamber, directly in front of the monarch, and just steps below the throne, means that someone will likely notice if his eyes begin to flutter shut.

Falling asleep here is certainly no easy feat. In fact, Viktor has never accomplished in the ten years he has been sitting in on council meetings. But today, he feels like he is on the verge of doing the impossible.

Usually, he can manage to stay engaged by picking something of interest from each speaker’s monologue. However, it is difficult to find anything remotely interesting (particularly farming practices) when his mind keeps flashing back to his experience at the Midsummer’s Festival.

The sight of fire and water battling, driven on by the cheers of the crowd and the pleasant tone of the soft-spoken man who sat in the midst of the spectacle, floats in front of Viktor’s eyes, making it difficult for him to concentrate on the weathered old man currently pacing in the open space of the chamber.

How is Viktor supposed to go back to the mundane life of court when he has witnessed magic—real magic—just outside the castle walls?

Fingers drumming on his leg, Viktor slides his eyes away from the current speaker to the man seated not far to his left. Before sneaking to the festival, the only magic Viktor had ever seen was performed by the mage currently dressed all in black. As a child, even the slightest magical working awed Viktor, but as he grew older and learned the limits of the mage’s talents, Viktor learned that Ilya Romanov is little more than a glorified party trick. It looks good for the Nikiforovs to have a kept mage, even if the most he can do is spell away a common cold.

At the festival, Yuuri had manipulated the elements with apparent ease. There had been no long-winded incantations, no physical direction from the storyteller other than the words that rolled off his tongue. Vaguely, Viktor wonders if Ilya even knows there is another mage near the capital.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Ilya Romanov’s gaze immediately flicks to meet Viktor’s. There is something dead about his black-eyed stare, and not even the polite smile that plasters on his face can convince the most unseasoned courtier that Ilya holds any genuine respect for Viktor. Viktor holds Ilya’s stare just long enough to make sure the mage is aware that Viktor is unimpressed, before he turns his focus back to the rest of the council.

While his eyes may have turned back to the speaker still pacing the center of the floor, Viktor’s attention is fixed on the shy smile he received from the storyteller in the market. There is something beyond Yuuri’s magic (and despite what is squire says every time Viktor so much as mentions that day, Viktor is positive it was real magic) that makes him fascinating.

Here, in the halls of the oldest kingdom their world has ever known, Viktor is always on his guard.

He has to watch his back and fight tooth-and-nail to see past the slimy smiles of court in order to determine someone’s true intentions. But Yuuri…he is refreshingly honest. Viktor feels like the storyteller is an open book, like there is little Yuuri would ever have the intention (or capability) to lie about. Talking to Yuuri had been a breath of fresh air and Viktor can feel himself being poisoned by the council room.

When the session finally adjourns, it is only a lifetime of being groomed into the perfect prince that keeps Viktor from bolting out of the chamber. He smiles and nods to bows, listening carefully to the idle comments made by those who are not entirely on the side of the Crown and making mental notes to follow up on them as he sweeps toward the door.

He is almost free of the crowd of council members when a hand wrap around his wrist and tugs him into a side corridor just outside the chamber. Viktor reacts instinctively, his hand shifting to grab the arm of his attacker and wrenching it around their back. Only a flash of red hair keeps him from slamming the woman against the stone walls.

With a sigh, Viktor lets go and steps back, “Really, Mila, you should know better than to sneak up on me.”

Lady Mila Babicheva shakes out her wrist with a good-natured grin, looking as if nearly getting seriously injured is the most amusing thing to happen to her in months, “I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you, Highness. If you weren’t so preoccupied you would have heard me coming.”

“Preoccupied?” Viktor repeats, face blank.

For most, his cool reaction would have been a deterrent from continuing the line of questioning, but Mila rolls her eyes, “Did you hear a word Petrov said about his trading suggestions?”

Viktor raises an eyebrow but doesn’t reply. He can’t recall a single proposal that left Petrov’s mouth, but he won’t give Mila the satisfaction of admitting to that.

His silence, of course, is an answer of its own. An answer that has Mila grinning as she reaches out for his arm again and sets off down the corridor, “Come along, Highness, you’ve been acting weird and we want to get to the bottom of it.”

“We?”

She doesn’t acknowledge the question, simply pulls Viktor through the halls, past several servants who don’t spare them a second glance (Mila is known for being eccentric) and out the palace directly into the courtyard. Lady Babicheva’s brisk stride doesn’t stop until they are standing outside the stables and she finally lets go of her iron grip on Viktor’s arm.

“We’re going hunting,” she informs him, “you need some time out of the palace, some approved time.”

He gives her a grin, appreciative of the thought, “I have duties I have to attend to, Mila.”

“Her Majesty thought you needed time away too, she gave you the okay to have the afternoon off.”

“I can’t exactly hunt in these clothes.”

“I had a servant bring your riding gear down, it’s waiting in the stable.” Mila cocks her head, “honestly, Viktor, we’ve known each other for too long for any of your excuses to work. Don’t take forever changing.”

Since Mila has effectively prepared for every excuse Viktor can make, he figures it is better to accept defeat and take a break. Sweeping his friend an exaggerated bow, he says, “Of course, my lady.”

She shoves him gently in response and skips out of arm’s reach to avoid retaliation.

Despite his protests, a day out of the city is exactly what Viktor is itching for. Even though he has friends in court that he feels comfortable around, it is impossible to fully relax within the stone walls of the palace. As he changes out of his court attire and into riding clothes, Viktor makes a mental note to thank his mother for whatever arrangements she has made to free his afternoon so suddenly.

His horse isn’t in the stable, so Viktor makes his way back to the courtyard to find that Mila isn’t waiting alone. She is patting the mane of a chestnut brown mare, talking animatedly to the rider of a gray gelding, his blond and brown hair just as distinctive as the ice blue tunic he wears as part of Viktor’s personal guard. The only person not mounted already is holding the reins to two different horses.

Yuri is the first to notice Viktor’s approach, and he holds out the reins for Viktor’s stallion, “Took you long enough.”

“That’s no way to talk to your knight commander, Yura,” Mila says, her scolding completely ineffective due to her obvious amusement.

“Even less to your prince,” Christophe adds.

To his credit, Yuri waits for Viktor to take the reins from his hands before he rounds on the other man with a scowl, “You’re one to talk, Giacometti. I think I’ve seen you bow to this geezer exactly once.”

“I’ve got special privilege.”

Grinning, Viktor swings into the saddle, “Is that so?”

“Of course it is, Highness. If I was bowing to you all day I would’ve been relieved of my post as soon as I got it.” The captain of Viktor’s personal guard gives his prince a dramatic wink, “I can start fawning over you, if you’d like.”

“Don’t you dare,” Viktor says, accepting the already strung bow that Yuri passes to him and pulling on the quiver that comes next. “Where are we hunting?”

“You’re the prince,” Mila replies, testing the draw of her bow, “you pick.”

Viktor wheels his mount toward the gate, considering his options. There are two major roads that lead out of the capital city, one going south while the other goes west. Past the man-made fields that stretch toward the capital and up to the north, wilderness surrounds the city, but without hounds and a larger party, hunting in those parts is a waste of time.

Wind ripples through the courtyard, carrying leaves and stray flower petal out through the open gate, and Viktor can imagine silk ribbons dancing among the breeze, heading toward the central marketplace.

“Let’s go east,” he says, urging his horse forward.

There is no word of contest from the others as they make their way through the city and out of the walls. A steady trot easily eats up the kilometers between the capital and the forest that is Viktor’s ultimate destination. The road East of the capital is lightly traveled; most merchants came in from ships or through the mountain pass, both of which are much easily reached by going along the two other trade routes. In fact, there is nothing east of the forest save for a small village and the rugged mountain terrain that keeps Kiev safe in isolation from its neighbors.

“So, Viktor,” Christophe draws level to him, an impish glint in his eye immediately setting Viktor on alert, “why east?”

Viktor shrugs, “No reason in particular.”

A grin spreads across his friend’s face, and Viktor takes a moment to curse an adolescence spent together for the fact that Christophe can see through his lies, “Does ‘no reason in particular’ have a name?”

“Why would I choose our hunting location based on a person?”

“Because you’re you, Viktor. A name?”

“Yuuri,” Mila pipes up from where she is riding behind them, abreast with Yuri, “he’s a storyteller.”

Viktor twists in his saddle to level a dramatic look of betrayal at his squire, “You sold me out?  You swore loyalty to me, Yuri!”

Yuri rolls his eyes, “I don’t swear fealty to you until I’m knighted and if I have to listen to you go on about that guy anymore I’m going to leave court. Besides, I only told Mila he’s a storyteller, I didn’t give her a name.”

At that, Viktor pulls his horse to a stop and turns so he is facing Mila. All traces of light-hearted joking melt beneath the ice of his usual court persona as his eyes narrow, “Why is he on the Babichevs' radar?”

She shrugs, “Couldn’t say. Technically, I’m not a part of the family business yet; I’m still in training. Even if I did know…,” Mila trails off, her voice still light and airy even as her eyes take on a sharp edge while she meets Viktor’s stare without flinching.

Her unspoken message is well received.

The Babichev House is an instrumental ally to the throne, having served as the royal spymasters since the beginning of the Nikiforov Dynasty. The only reason the Nikiforovs have managed to keep hold to the throne after desperately clawing their way to power is due to the work of the Babichevs, and their working policy was one of absolute secrecy. Unless ordered by the monarch, information cannot be discussed in the presence of anyone outside the two lines. Breaking that vow of silence was treason.

Switching tactics, Viktor asks, “Why is he on your radar?”

“Same reason he’s on yours, I suppose,” Mila muses, the hard look leaving her eyes as quickly as it appeared, “he’s pretty, mysterious, even a bit magical.”

Christophe and Yuri had gone silent during the standoff, but as soon as those words leave Mila’s mouth, Christophe snorts, “I’ve never heard you wax poetic about a boy before, Babicheva.”

“And you still haven’t,” she replies with a wink, “this Yuuri possesses some sort of mastery over magic. He’s the village healer in the town up ahead. Rumor has it that he can spell away a fever in minutes and he’s never had a death while delivering babes, not even twins.” Mila flicks her reins and maneuvers around Viktor, “of course, those are all rumors that I’ve picked up on my own, nothing solid.”

“The bit about him being pretty? Is that a rumor too?” Christophe asks.

Yuri swears under his breath before anyone can reply, “If I knew this was going to turn into a discussion about that scam artist I would never have come.” His horse moves past Viktor, and he tosses a withering look at Christophe as if he blames the knight for bringing up the topic in the first place, “can we talk about something else?”

“I’ll race you to the tree line,” Mila offers, “loser pays five silvers.”

“You’re on, Babicheva.”

They race off without pause.

Viktor watches them go, his mind turning over every word that had left Mila’s lips. Objectively, he knows that Kiev’s spies observe a lot of individuals, it is necessary for the Crown to remain strong. But for Yuuri to be on the radar of the queen’s spies…Viktor wonders if trying to visit is best for either of them.

“Viktor,” he blinks and tugs his attention to Christophe, who is idly watching the process of the race, “remember what you would tell me every time you talked me into a pulling a stupid stunt while we were in training?”

The memories bring a soft smile to Viktor’s lips, “Yeah. I’d tell you that I wasn’t king yet and that I wanted to have some fun until then.”

Christophe glances at Viktor and grins, “Last time I checked, you’re still not king. Let’s go see if we can find your magical storyteller.”

 

* * *

 

The wind is still.

Yuuri feels like one of his senses has been cut off, like he has been forcibly isolated from a dimension of the world he takes for granted.

He hurriedly makes his way through the trees, collecting herbs and berries like a man out of time. Around him, the usual bustle of nature is gone. There are no bird calls, not even the buzz of insects flitting past. In the silence, Yuuri can hear his own heart pounding in his ears, emphasizing the unnerving sense of wrongness that blankets the familiar forest.

He hadn’t even planned to come here today. He has charms to weave and enough supplies to occupy himself making his more popular product for several days. But starting his day with the sight of Yuuko cradling her children, surrounded by a loving family, prodded at ache deep in his chest.

Thirteen years is a long recovery period.

Yuuri isn’t aware of any ailments that take over a decade to heal. At least, none of which that are of the physical variety. If a patient knocked on his door with such a problem, Yuuri would have told them that the wound was beyond repair.

The hole that ripped through his body (on a day much like this one), the sudden wave of loneliness that swept away from his home and to a foreign kingdom, has yet to stop hurting and sometimes Yuuri wonders if it ever will. Most days, Yuuri can press on; the feeling merely a familiar presence at the edge of his consciousness like a bum knee or a fading scar. Today, it threatened to swallow him whole so Yuuri had picked up a basket and fled into the comfort of the forest.

Being surrounded by nature is always where he feels most at ease. Unlike humans, nature has never harbored ill-will towards anyone. It gives back what it receives; nurtures the respectful and humbles the entitled.

But right now, the hairs on the back of his neck are standing upright and Yuuri’s mind begs him to run back to the village as quickly as his legs can carry him.

A twig snaps.

Yuuri whirls around and trips on the underbrush, falling on his back with an undignified yelp.

“Yuuri! Are you alright?”

That voice. It sounds familiar, and out of place. It isn’t meant to be here, not in the silence of an uneasy forest. Maybe Yuuri is hallucinating, his fear so potent that his brain is trying to comfort him with the memory of the kind stranger that had spoken to him at the Midsummer’s Festival. He tilts his head toward the voice and meets concerned blue eyes.

He blinks, “Viktor?”

While Yuuri tries to puzzle through the man’s presence, Viktor kneels on the forest floor. His hands are hovering in the air, as if he isn’t sure whether he is allowed to help Yuuri up, “I’m sorry for scaring you. I was just in the area with some friends and saw you walking past and I wanted to say hello. You’re not hurt, are you?”

The words tumble from Viktor’s mouth in a stream, flying at Yuuri so rapidly that it takes him a moment to register the question, “I’m fine.”

He is rewarded with a beaming smile and Yuuri feels his breath catch in his throat. Deciding that staring at Viktor much longer will make things awkward, Yuuri pushes himself up into a seated position and glances around, sighing when he sees the contents of his basket have spilled everywhere.

Viktor follows his gaze and reaches out, picking up a bright yellow flower and examining it curiously, “What is this?”

“Roseroot; for stamina and stress. I use it in teas.” Yuuri explains, shifting onto his knees so he can collect as many of the flowers he can find. Even though he feels uneasy in the stillness, he is fleetingly grateful the wind hasn’t snatched the flowers away, “I was gathering herbs.”

“And I made you spill them everywhere,” Viktor muses, placing the flower in Yuuri’s basket, “I’ll help you pick them up.”

“It’s really no trouble, I don’t want to keep you from your friends.”

Viktor smiles, and Yuuri is suddenly hit with the thought that Viktor’s smile is the most overpowered negotiation tool a person can have because all of his protests die in his throat, “I want to help you, Yuuri.”

“Alright.”

And that’s how Yuuri finds himself rummaging through the leaves and twigs of the forest floor to pick out the herbs he had gathered over the past hour. Each time Viktor picks up a new plant, he asks Yuuri what it is and what Yuuri plans to use it for. He sits in silence, eyes fixed on Yuuri’s face, as Yuuri identifies the plant and lists a few of its uses. Only when Yuuri is finished talking does Viktor turn his attention back to the underbrush and devote himself to hunting down all of the identical plants within reach and dumping them into the basket.

It isn’t the first time someone has asked Yuuri about his healing methods, just this morning he had dealt with a hovering mother-in-law questioning his every. But Viktor’s questions are a mixture of a desire to learn something new and a genuine interest in hearing Yuuri speak. As far as the former goes, Yuuri isn’t used to having people so engaged in what he has to say, not when he is just Yuuri.

At the festivals, there are crowds hanging on every word that leaves his mouth, but they are interested in the story itself, not the person telling it.

“What’s this?” Viktor asks, holding up another yellow flower.

Yuuri flicks his gaze between Viktor and the flower, not sure if the question is a joke. There is nothing but the same earnest nature Viktor has shown for the past twenty minutes, so with a straight face, he says, “That’s Lion’s Tooth. People use it for a lot of different reasons.”

“What do you use it for?”

Reaching over, Yuuri plucks the flower from Viktor’s grip, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I generally refer to it as a common dandelion,” Yuuri admits, his lips twitching, betraying his amusement, “but I wasn’t picking any, you just pulled this from the ground.”

Viktor blinks once. Then he blinks twice, a slight burrow appearing between his eyebrows. In the stunned silence, Yuuri is reminded that no matter how at ease he feels around Viktor, they are still _strangers_.

His cheeks flush and he opens his mouth to frantically apologize for poking fun, and is halted by Viktor clutching a hand to his chest and reeling back as if Yuuri has struck a blow to his face.

“Yuuri! Here I thought you were a kind village healer but it turns out you like to torment people for their inferior knowledge of plant life. How will I ever rebound from this embarrassment?”

The sheer level of drama oozing from Viktor would be at home with a troupe of traveling players. A snort of laughter leaves Yuuri’s lips without his permission and he clasps his hands over his mouth, letting the offending bloom flutter to the ground.

The noise doesn’t go unnoticed by the other man because blue eyes twinkle and Viktor reaches out to pick the flower back up, “The only way I’ll possibly be able to recover is if you take the fruits of my labor and create something magnificent with it.”

Yuuri slowly lets his hands drop from his mouth to reveal a small smile, and he reaches out for the dandelion. A sudden gust of wind ripes through the clearing, tearing the flower out of Viktor’s grip and out of sight within the span of a breath. Yuuri doesn’t waste time mourning its absence, his attention is too focused on the churn in his gut, the strong sensation that something is wrong.

Red light flares out of the corner of his vision and Yuuri throws himself at Viktor, hand gripping the wrist still outstretched and tugging the other man just a few feet to the right. In the same instant, a giant beast launches out of the cover of the trees to snap at where Viktor’s neck had been seconds previously.

Yuuri turns so he can face their attacker and staggers back a few steps, eyes wide in horror.

It is a wolf.

Except, Yuuri knows nature, and he knows what wolves are supposed to look like. They aren’t supposed to have red eyes with an unearthly glow; eyes that are narrowed and fixed on Viktor without care for the other human presence. For another thing, it is too large, probably just over 100 centimeters from shoulder down.

Sometime during his conversation with Viktor, the sun disappeared behind large gray clouds, making the wolf’s matted black fur nearly blend into the shadows, giving its whole appearance an ominous aura.

“Do you usually get wolves like this out here?” Viktor asks, his voice still light and airy despite the presence of the beast that is staring him down like he is its last meal.

“I’ve never seen a wolf like this one,” Yuuri admits.

“Ah, I was afraid you’d say that.”

The wolf snarls and darts at Viktor, the rough timber of the noise clashing with Yuuri’s shout of warning. To his surprise, Viktor dodges just out of the beast’s charge, drawing the blade that is clipped to his belt in a fluid movement and slashing without pause. Blood stains the glistening steel of the sword and the wolf growls. It turns and attacks again, and once again, Viktor dodges and slashes.

For a moment, Yuuri forgets about the danger, completely engrossed in the scene playing before him. Viktor fights like the rest of the world moves in slow motion, his movements graceful and ferocious, his eyes narrow slightly as he anticipates and reacts. There is something familiar about the way he battles, a memory that itches in the back of Yuuri’s mind.

“Viktor! Left!”

The shout comes out of nowhere, yanking Yuuri back to the present.

Viktor immediately dives to his left, rolling on the ground as arrows fly from the cover of the trees in quick succession to land in a small cluster deep in the wolf’s side. The howl that leaves the beast’s mouth is nearly deafening, and for the first time since appearing, it tears its focus from Viktor to look for a new assailant.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Viktor launches from his crouch and thrusts his sword through one of the animal’s eyes, straight to its brain. It collapses with another howl, and the clearing goes still.

Footsteps crash through the underbrush and a young woman enters the clearing, a longbow in one hand and a quiver across her back. She stops when she is a few steps away from the beast, “By Maeve.”

Viktor steps toward the animal and tugs his sword from its eye, “You can say that again.”

“Are you alright?” She asks.

He nods and turns to Yuuri, “Are you alright, Yuuri?”

Yuuri forces himself to move forward, attention so fixed on the wolf that he doesn’t notice the calculating look the woman gives him, “I’m fine. It wasn’t interested in me.”

“I’ve never seen an animal act like that,” Viktor muses, “it’s a bit unnatural.”

‘A bit unnatural’ is an understatement. Yuuri can feel the energy rolling off of the animal and flowing into the forest; magic returning to its caster. He pauses just level with Viktor and lifts his glasses, curious to See the beast for what it really is.

Unfiltered malicious intent floods Yuuri.

It rises from the wolf’s corpse in a noxious cloud, siphoning the oxygen from Yuuri’s lungs and threatening to suffocate him. Vaguely, he is aware that someone is talking him, their voice tinged with concern, but all of his energy is directed at resisting the pull of violence the magic gives off. Gritting his teeth, Yuuri tries to push past the malice to find the identity of the caster as spots begin to appear in his vision.

A hand touches his shoulder, breaking his concentration and sending the world spinning around him. He feels his legs give out from underneath him as everything turns to black.


	3. the warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has questions and answers are not forthcoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So while I was working on this chapter I realized that it flowed better in present tense as opposed to past tense which lead to me rewriting the last two chapters to fit. Little has changed in the fic other than the tense and a few minor edits!

Viktor watches Yuuri fall in slow motion. He rushes forward, one arm slipping under Yuuri’s knees while the other stays around his shoulders, sweeping Yuuri into his grip before the man can collapse to the ground. Yuuri’s glasses slide from his face and tumble toward the ground, saved from falling into the pool of blood spreading from the wolf’s corpse by Mila’s quick hands.

“What happened?” she asks, just a slight twinge of bewilderment coloring her voice.

The universe is toying with Viktor, or at least that’s what Viktor feels. It’s the only explanation for how his day is going. To go from watching brown eyes sparkle with enjoyment as Yuuri describes his work, to battling a wolf and having Yuuri collapse shortly thereafter, is cruel past the point of coincidence, and Viktor shakes his head in frustration, “I don’t know.”

“Viktor! Are you alright?” Christophe and Yuri crash into the clearing, swords drawn in preparation for a fight. Both come to a halt at the sight before them, Yuri’s attention fixes on the dead beast while Christophe’s eyes immediately fall on the unconscious healer.

Yuri prods the animal with the toe of his boot, “What the hell? This thing is huge.”

“Where are the horses?” Viktor asks, not on the mood to discuss the beast while Yuuri is little more than dead weight in his arms.

“Just past these trees,” Christophe answers, stepping next to Viktor and picking up one of the storyteller’s limp wrists.  His fingers press against a pulse point and he pauses, waiting, before he says, “he’s alive, but he needs help. We should be able to find someone in the village.”

“Holy shit!” Yuri’s shout draws everyone’s attention to the wolf, and Viktor feels a chill go down his spine as the beast’s carcass dissolves into black sand.

No one moves. They all stare at the pile of black in the clearing as if it might reform into another creature.

Viktor is the first one to talk, “We need to get out of here now. Mila, can you get Yuuri’s basket?”

She immediately makes a wide circle around the sand pile and picks up the discarded basket before returning to the group. With a final glance at the wolf’s new remains, Viktor sets off toward the trees, determined to put as much distance between his group and the clearing as possible.

They barely make it to the horses before fog settles around them, reducing visibility to levels that Viktor has only experienced during Kiev’s worst winter storms.

“What the hell is wrong with this place?” Yuri’s derisive snarl comes from somewhere to his left, but all Viktor can make out of the squire is the plume of his horse’s tail.

“Are you scared, Yura?” Mila asks.

“There’s a difference between being scared and wary. Fog doesn’t just appear out of nowhere like this.”

The logical part of Viktor wants to reply that it’s merely a bit of bad luck. That, with it’s position far north of their known world, Kiev has always had somewhat unpredictable weather. But as Christophe helps him pull the unconscious storyteller onto the saddle in front of him, Viktor can’t ignore the uneasy feeling in the pit of his gut that something more powerful than chance is at play.

Although his kingdom is currently at peace, Viktor has led his fair share of skirmishes before; protecting outlying towns from pirates and mountain bandits. Fighting the wolf had felt akin to these battles; there had been murderous intent in its glowing red eyes.

The wolf had been magic, that much is obvious even to someone without any magical knowledge. Besides the fact that it completely dissolved into nothingness, there had been intelligence in its gaze. No matter how much of a brave face he put on for Yuuri (and now puts on for his companions), Viktor feels that he will have nightmares of that beast for weeks to come.

“Is everyone mounted?” Christophe’s voice cracks through the fog like a whip. Gone is Viktor’s easygoing, childhood, friend. In his place is the man in charge of protecting the heir to the throne, and that knowledge helps eases Viktor’s concerns slightly. He trusts Christophe with his life, and Christophe has saved it on more than one occasion, with him here Viktor is confident they will be able to find help for Yuuri before it’s too late.

“I’m good!” Mila’s voice sounds from Viktor’s right.

“Took you long enough,” Yuri mutters.

“I’m ready,” Viktor’s voice is steady, even, a complete contrast to the way his heart still rapidly pounds against his chest.

“Since we can’t see each other, I’m going to need you all to keep talking. Don’t go more than twenty seconds without speaking up. Follow the sounds of my voice, we’re heading to the village.”

“How can you even tell which direction the village is?” Yuri asks, sounding more curious than dismissive.

Christophe laughs, “Plisetsky, unlike you city-born Kievans, my people learn to travel more dangerous terrain from birth. A little fog won’t slow me down. Let’s move out!”

Viktor listens for the sounds of hoof beats before he kicks his horse into a walk, moving in the direction of Christophe’s voice. Around him, Yuri, Christophe, and Mila, engage in idle conversation; discussing the same things they would if the four of them were sitting back in the palace. Viktor knows they are intentionally avoiding any discussion of their current situation in an attempt to keep him calm. Even with the tight knot in the pit of his stomach, Viktor feels a rush of gratitude flow through his body toward them.

The trek toward the village is one of the tensest trips of Viktor’s entire life. Every few minutes he drops his head down to fall in line with Yuuri’s mouth, heart pounding wildly as he waits for just a brush of air to blow on his cheek, confirming that the storyteller is still alive.

“Viktor?” Christophe’s call pulls Viktor from his reverie and he gives an affirmative hum, “you fell silent.”

“Sorry,” Viktor replies, straightening in the saddle as he drops his reins into Yuuri’s lap, steering his horse with his knees so he can keep both arms wrapped around Yuuri’s waist. The storyteller is remarkably thin for someone whose job involves minimal physical activity. Viktor wonders if it’s because Yuuri doesn’t get enough to eat, and if he can find a way to stock the man’s food cellar without being suspected.

“What happened to your storyteller?” Christophe asks, voice kind but firm in a way that tells Viktor he won’t be able to weasel himself out of this line of questioning. Apparently, avoiding the topic isn’t worth losing track of Viktor due to his silence.

“I’m not sure,” Viktor replies, “he walked up to the wolf, lifted his glasses away from his eyes, and then he just froze.”

“Froze?”

Mila pipes up from nearby, “Like a statue, I thought he stopped breathing for a second. He went completely pale and stopped responding to Viktor’s questions.

Viktor’s mind flashes back to the sight of the lovely pink flush draining from Yuuri’s cheek and the dead look that filled brown eyes. Mila wasn’t strictly correct; Yuuri hadn’t been statuesque because Viktor could see his entire body trembling with fear.

“Do you think he sensed something?” Christophe asks.

“Sensed something?” Yuri scoffs, “he’s not a real mage, he’s a con.”

“You said he has magic, right? And the wolf was clearly some sort of spell,” the guard captain presses, “do you think he could sense the magic, or possibly that he cast the spell?”

Viktor pulls his horse to a stop, blood freezing at the suggestion, “Yuuri wouldn’t do that.”

There’s silence for a few moments, and then Mila replies, “No disrespect, Viktor, but you don’t know what Yuuri would or would not do. You don’t know anything about him.”

“I know he wouldn’t try to kill me,” Viktor says firmly, tightening his hold on Yuuri’s waist is if it will somehow protect Yuuri from the accusations sitting heavy on the dense fog.

“I understand that you like him, Viktor, but it is my job to question his intentions.” Christophe is closer now, obviously having tracked back to where Viktor is standing still.

Yuri appears by Viktor’s side; he stops within arm’s reach, close enough that Viktor can make out his face. The squire studies Viktor curiously before his eyes flick to the unconscious storyteller. When he speaks, his words are harsh, but they are in Viktor’s favor, “what kind of killer mage faints right after his idiotic attack fails? Besides, his magic is a bluff; he couldn’t hurt Viktor even if he wanted to.”

Viktor decides, then and there, that he’s going to give Yuri the next week off from practice. Maybe he’ll buy Yuri a room in that expensive tavern he loves so much in the capital; talk the fourth-year squire Yuri pretends he hates into going along.

“Alright,” Christophe doesn’t sound convinced, but he lets the topic go, “then we need to keep moving so we can get Yuuri some help.”

The sound of muffled hoof beats resumes and Mila muses, “You know, it could get confusing to have two Yuri’s around here. We should give one of them a nickname.”

“Give it to Plisetsky,” Christophe says.

At the same moment, Yuri snaps, “Not me.”

Despite the bitter taste their previous conversation has left in Viktor’s mouth, he chuckles at the predictable reaction and says, “Well storyteller Yuuri is older so he had the name first. I think my dear squire will have to burden the nickname.”

“The hell I will!” Yuri protests.

“Sorry, Yurio, your knight commander has spoken,” Mila says.

“That’s not my name!”

At the roared protest, Viktor, Mila, and Christophe, dissolve into laughter as they continue their ride to the village.

Lights begin to flicker in the darkness, an indication of civilization that can only be the small town near the edge of the forest. Here, the fog thins just enough that they can see each other, though the buildings lining each side of the road are little more than varying lumps of shadows. Christophe calls for a halt, waiting for Viktor to come level with him before saying, “I don’t suppose this town has someone who can heal their healer?”

“That might be a long shot,” Viktor sighs.

Christophe squints through the fog, running a hand through his hair as he considers their options, “We need to find a tavern then. A town this small probably only has one, and someone there has to know who we can go to for help.”

“We’ll follow your lead, Chris.”

With a nod, Christophe shifts in his saddle so he can see the other two, waving them in so they can all speak without fear of being overheard, “With this fog we’ll likely have to stay overnight, and I don’t want us taking any chances. That means no titles, don’t give any indication of who Viktor is at all. Answer as few questions as possible, lie as necessary. Understood?”

“This isn’t a first for any of us,” Yuri mutters, “can we just get inside?”

“I think the tavern is just up ahead, let’s go.” Christophe kicks his horse into a walk, the other three falling into step immediately.

True to Christophe’s guess, a tavern rises into view from the dense fog, the lights posted outside its doors making it the easiest building to discern in either direction. The guard captain dismounts and passes his reins to Yuri before slipping inside the door.

Realistically, Viktor knows that only a few minutes pass between when his friend vanishes and when he returns, but the heavy weight against his chest, the fact that Yuuri hasn’t moved once in the time since his collapse, makes each minute stretch into a decade.

When Christophe exits the tavern, he is being followed by a woman. Her sleeves are pushed up to her elbows, an apron across her waist indicates she likely works inside. Sharp brown eyes sweep the small group before they fall on Viktor, and her shoulders tense.

“That’s Yuuri,” she says, voice rigid, “bring him inside, he can rest in one of the rooms. I’ve got small stables around the back, you can put your horses up for the night.”

 

* * *

 

_Moonlight fights to peak through the stormy clouds overhead, lightning rolling in the sky as if threatening to strike Yuuri down where he stands. Around him, desecrate trees loom out, their limbs gnarled and bare, the bark of the trees twist to resemble ghostly faces. Underfoot, dead grass crunches and broken twigs tear into the flesh of his feet._

_There was a time when Yuuri's dreamscape looked like a garden of paradise. When mythical beasts that had long since ceased visiting the Earth flew past, when the forest was filled with life and light._

_He was taught that a mage's dreamscape reflects their innermost self. It explains why this forest died the same night that Yuuri's family had._

_Yuuri doesn't come here often._

_In fact, he goes out of his way to avoid it. He mixes potent teas to make his sleep as dreamless as possible and refuses to use his magic for several hours before sleeping, all to make sure he doesn’t have to confront the truth of his soul._

_Slowly, he makes his way toward the nearest tree, placing a hand against its blackened trunk. It feels like ashes under his touch, as if it is one good push away from falling to dust. Looking at his dreamscape now shatters the delicate lie Yuuri has spun in his own mind; the illusion that he is okay._

_There are no lies within his inner mind, and it shows him a boy completely fractured; a forest too damaged for anything to grow again. Even if Yuuri had a home to go back to, he couldn't face any of the others when he is so pathetic._

_"I must say, I never expected this."_

_The voice rises from the shadows at Yuuri's back and he whirls, eyes searching for whoever has slipped into his sanctuary, prepared to blast them out of existence. The wolf that Viktor killed slinks out of the trees, eyes glinting as it takes in Yuuri, "relax child, I am here merely to speak with you."_

_The wolf's mouth opens and closes out of sync with its words, showing that it is merely a projection of whatever magic user is on the other side. It uses a man's voice, smooth and cultured, voice rolling over his words with confidence._

_"I wanted to see who was meddling in my affairs."_

_"You tried to kill Viktor." Yuuri finally finds his voice, hands still tingling with the residuals of his magic. Even if the mage hasn't come to attack Yuuri, it doesn't mean Yuuri plans to let him get away with forcing his way into Yuuri's mind._

_The wolf tilts its head, as if thinking through what to say, the expression on its face uncomfortably human, “I never expected to find such a powerful magic user so close to the capital. Though, by the state of your mind, you're in no condition to be a threat to me."_

_Without warning, the wolf launches itself at Yuuri, catching him off guard and knocking him back onto the ground. Magic flies from Yuuri's fingertips, singeing the side of the animal's fur but causing no real harm.  Yuuri feels his heart stop as he stares up into the beast's red gaze, trying to look past the teeth bared at him._

_"Do yourself a favor, child. Stay out of this, or my next visit will not be so pleasant."_

Yuuri's eyes fly open and he swears softly. His entire body is trembling, sweat makes his clothes cling to his body.

This isn't supposed to happen.

"Ah, you're awake."

He glances to his right and is bombarded with a wave of familiar gold light. Blinking, Yuuri blindly reaches for his glasses and shoves them on his nose before giving Minako a small smile, "Hi."

Minako is seated in a chair near the door of the bedroom. A quick look around tells Yuuri that he must be in her inn rather than his own home, and he pushes himself upright, "What happened?"

She shrugs, "I don't know. Four strangers just rode up to my place saying that they had a man who needed help. They won't say a word about what happened. Do I need to go downstairs and kick them out?"

"Is Viktor with them?"

A single eyebrow rises, "Yes."

"I need to talk to him."

Minako doesn't reply right away, her eyes fix on Yuuri, scanning his face as if she can read his thoughts, "Yuuri, what's going on?"

"I...I don't know," the words fumble out of Yuuri's mouth and he sighs, already feeling an oncoming headache as he tries to puzzle through the insanity of his day, "I just know that someone is after him, I need to warn him."

"And how are you going to explain that? You can't tell him anything without also revealing your abilities, Yuuri, you know how dangerous that is."

"But if I don't he might-"

"Who is he?" Minako cuts Yuuri off, her voice stern, arms crossing over her chest as she stares at Yuuri from across the room.

Yuuri feels his throat seize up under the disapproval that radiated from her. Minako is all Yuuri has left of the place he used to call home, and without her he knows he never would have survived the fire that swept the rest of his people away. The last thing he ever wants to do is jeopardize the slice of peace she helped him scrape together in this new land; to waste something she gave up her own livelihood is unquestionable.

The moment Yuuri's shoulders start to tense, the harsh edge leaves Minako's stare and she sighs, standing and crossing the room, "Really, Yuuri, you have a kind soul, but you don't know anything about this Viktor. He could be a war criminal or a spy from the Atreides Empire, you can't afford to get complacent."

"I know," Yuuri murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. All he knows about Viktor was his name, and no matter how nice of a smile Viktor has or how charming Viktor is, Yuuri can't just begin rattling off his secrets, "I know."

She stretches out a hand and ruffles his hair, chuckling when Yuuri swats at her hand, "Come downstairs and I'll have some stew for you."

Minako's hand is on the handle, preparing to open the door, when she seems to remember something and glances back at Yuuri, "War criminal or not, he's quite handsome. When were you going to tell me about him?"

Yuuri groans and drops back onto his bed, covering his burning cheeks with his hands, "Not now, nee-san."

He can hear Minako's laughter follow her out the door and down the hall.

 

* * *

 

Fire crackles in the hearth of the tavern and Viktor is unable to tear his gaze away from it. He watches it dance; enthralled by the movement of the flames much the same way he had been when he saw Yuuri manipulate it with mere words. A part of him wonders if this fire seems so active because Yuuri is upstairs in one of the inn's rooms; if the very proximity of the storyteller helps bring the fire to life.

Beside him, he can hear his friends talking over a game of cards, meal long ago finished and their saddle bags already sitting in their rooms upstairs. They are currently sprawled out on the rug next to the fireplace, having abandoned the table where they earlier at a meal. Viktor knows that sitting with them will probably help the time pass quicker, but there's a comfort in the fire that is entirely new to him and he doesn't want to turn his attention away it's warmth.

Movement to his right makes Viktor blink and he smiles up at the innkeeper; a woman named Minako. Her quick reactions in getting Yuuri to a bed and preparing something for him to eat when he woke, and her insistence to sit by his bedside, immediately makes Viktor like her.

"How is he?"

"He's awake," Minako replies, "I told him to come downstairs and put something in his stomach. Can I finally convince you to eat something as well?"

Viktor opens his mouth to answer, and catches sight of sleep-rumbled black hair. His response dies in his throat as a wider smile stretches over his face and he waves across the room, "Yuuri!"

Pink blooms on Yuuri's cheeks, (Viktor is certain that it should be illegal for someone to look so adorable while blushing) and Yuuri waves back, making his way over to where Viktor sits.

"Thanks for bringing me here," Yuuri says, not quite meeting Viktor's gaze, "sorry for being trouble."

"It was no trouble at all!" Viktor rushes to say, "are you feeling better?"

Yuuri nods, "Much better."

Minako places a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder and maneuvers him to the seat that sits on the other side of the small table beside Viktor, "Sit down, I'll bring you your stew."

As Yuuri sits with a mumbled word of gratitude, Viktor’s eyes carefully scan Yuuri's frame for any sign of lingering fatigue. Yuuri looks, for all the world, like he just lied down and decided to take a nap in the clearing. There's no indication of whatever made him faint; which somehow worries Viktor more. If he knew what had happened, he would at least be able to prevent it in the future.

Yuuri's eyes are wide behind his glasses as he takes in Viktor's companions. Yurio is loudly cursing Christophe for 'cheating' while Mila laughs behind her own hand of cards. Before Viktor can say a word, his squire catches sight of the new arrival and rolls his eyes.

"Finally woke up, did you?"

His brash demeanor is no less disarming on a second meeting than it is on the first, and Yuuri blinks rapidly for a moment before he says, "Uh, I don't think we were introduced?"

"This is Yurio," Viktor cuts in, ignoring his squire's snapped response about the name. He waves at the woman currently eyeing Yuuri curiously from over the top of her cards, "the sharpshooter is Mila, and Christophe is over at the end. Everyone, this is Yuuri. He tells the most amazing stories and knows about all sorts of plant life!"

There's a chorus of greetings from Christophe and Mila as Yuuri flushes again at Viktor's compliment, "I'm sure you've heard the story of the Lightbringer a million times. Everyone has."

"But never like you tell it!"

Two bowls of stew are set down on the table. One for Yuuri and one for Viktor, each delivered with a pointed look that says both men are expected to eat their meal. Tankards of juice and bread are set down next to them before Minako heads away to deal with other customers.

Yuuri smiles at Viktor, clearly deciding that it's not worth it to argue, before his smile fades slightly, "My basket...?"

Mila leans over and reaches for something at the base of a nearby empty seat, pulling out the basket with a flourish and a grin, "You managed to pick quite a collection in here. If you don't mind my asking, what is it you do, Yuuri?"

Viktor shoots Mila a warning glance that she utterly ignores, her attention (seemingly) focused entirely on the storyteller who accepts the basket before putting it on the floor. When Yuuri looks back up at the others, Viktor's attention is on his stew and he is silently praying that Yuuri's shy demeanor will keep him from answering Mila's question. The last thing he needs is for Mila or Christophe to deem Yuuri a threat to his safety.

"I'm just the village healer," Yuuri says, tucking into his meal, "mostly I make charms and teas for health, protection, sickness, things like that. Sometimes I care for the ill, this morning I delivered the baker's triplets."

"Triplets?" Mila repeats, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling, "no complications?"

Shaking his head, Yuuri dips a piece of bread into his stew, chewing thoroughly before he says, "They were all happy and healthy when I left to gather herbs."

"That's quite a day of work. I imagine the exhaustion probably didn't help you deal with that beast."

Yuuri's focus is now completely centered on the bowl in front of him, but an emotion flickers across his face before rapidly being covered. When he speaks, his words are too careful for anyone raised in a royal court to believe they are meaningless, "Did you end up doing anything with the wolf?"

"It dissolved," she replies.

"Dissolved?"

"Into dust," Mila confirms, "it was magic, but I’m sure you knew that as soon as it arrived."

Brown eyes flicker up to meet Mila's and Viktor is surprised by the harsh edge he sees in Yuuri's gaze. He looks like he is seconds away from fleeing the tavern altogether, his grip on his spoon tight, his jaw clenched.

Viktor half expects Yuuri to lash out, to accuse Mila of running an interrogation (because she is) and accuse Viktor of being complicit in it (which he is). Instead, Yuuri tilts his chin back slightly in a challenge posture even as his face melts into a polite smile, "You seem to know about me, but I know nothing about any of you. What is it you do, Miss...?"

Surprise flashes on Yurio's and Christophe's faces at the polished response, and Viktor knows that only Mila's training keeps the same expression from her face. Instead, she parrots Yuuri's smile, "It's just Mila, there's no need for formality if you're a friend of Viktor's. I'm currently training to take over my family business in the capital."

Yuuri nods thoughtfully and turns his gaze on Viktor, he promptly snaps his jaw shut and tries to pretend that he wasn't gawking. The smile on Yuuri's face softens slightly as he asks, "Your swordplay is amazing, Viktor. Where did you learn it?"

"Oh, uh...," Viktor hesitates, the sudden shift of Yuuri's focus to him is enough to cause him to stumble, "I learned when I was younger, with Chris."

There's a snort from down on the ground, no doubt Christophe's amusement at how his prince hastily shifted the work of the lie down to him. Before Yuuri can even ask, he says, "Viktor and I are guardsmen in the capital."

The corner of Yuuri's mouth twitches slightly, and he raises an eyebrow, "I'm not a native to Kiev but I have lived here for some time. You wear the colors of the Nikiforov House; would that make you a guard of the Queen?"

At any other time, Yuuri's sharp gaze and keen intelligence would be a matter of absolute delight for Viktor. Right now, it does nothing but make Viktor’s mouth go dry at the prospect of Yuuri discovering who he is, and subsequently pulling away from him as quickly as possible.

Christophe raises his tankard in a salute to Yuuri and says, "No, I serve the Crown Prince. So does Viktor."

"And Yurio?"

The squire lets out a huff of derision at the nickname and mutters, "I'm training to do the same."

Yuuri nods, gaze scanning the three men in turn, "That's amazing! My father tried to teach me a few skills with the sword but I was never good at it. I could hold my ground against a back-alley thief but that's about it."

"Perhaps Viktor could teach you some tricks," Mila muses, and Viktor stares at her, hoping he can convey his wish for her to drop the topic through looks alone, "he's one of the best swordsmen I've seen."

"I believe that," Yuuri replies, smiling back at Viktor, "without him there that wolf might have killed me."

Viktor shakes his head, smiling back, "If you hadn't seen the wolf coming we would both be dead."

There's a suffering groan down on the floor and Yuri pushes himself to his feet, throwing his cards on the rug, "If I have to stomach another second of these two I'll puke. I'm going to get some damn sleep."

He stalks off, heading toward the rooms and Christophe places his own cards on the rug with a sigh, "I should make sure he doesn't bite someone's head off along the way."

As Christophe leaves, Mila gathers the rest of the cards to put them in a stack before she also stands from her seat on the floor with a smile, "I'm afraid I should also be turning in. It was nice to meet you Yuuri."

"You as well, Mila," Yuuri says, and despite the odd tension that had filled between them during Mila's slight interrogation, Viktor can tell Yuuri's reply is genuine.

By the time Mila is out of sight, Viktor belatedly realizes that he is alone with Yuuri by the fire. Their food is long finished and around them the tavern has quieted; only a few stragglers still drinking near the front.

"Viktor," when Yuuri speaks his voice is a murmur, as if he is afraid of being overheard, "you guard the crown prince?"

It feels wrong to lie to Yuuri, but Viktor does so anyways, "Yes."

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt you?"

Viktor blinks at the question and shifts in his seat so he can study Yuuri more fully, not sure what to make of the guarded expression in Yuuri's eyes, "No, I can't. I suppose it's possible someone wishes to get to the prince, after all he is royalty and without his guard he is more vulnerable. But I don't have any personal enemies to think of."

Yuuri nods, "I see."

"Why do you ask?"

Brown eyes drop from Viktor to study his hands, "What did you think of that wolf? You said it was unnatural."

"It was," Viktor agrees, but he understands the intent behind Yuuri's question. It was odd that the beast never turned its attention toward the man who looked like an easier target. Even if Yuuri had not seen the intent in the wolf's gaze, its behavior could not go unnoticed, "But it could have been someone's experiment let loose in the woods."

"I suppose."

Silence falls between them, each man caught in his own thoughts about their day. Questions tumble through Viktor's mind at a rapid pace; questions about Yuuri's ability to sense the wolf, about why Yuuri had collapsed, why Yuuri asked about Viktor having enemies.

Viktor can't think of any of this now, not while he can do nothing about it. So, he shakes his head to clear it and refocuses on the storyteller, wondering how he can draw Yuuri from the odd mood he has fallen into.

"Yuuri," the other man hums softly but still doesn't meet Viktor's gaze, "tell me a story."

A thoughtful frown crosses Yuuri's face, "A story? Any story in particular?"

"Anything."

Yuuri leans back in his seat, eyes moving up to study the ceiling as he considers the request. Viktor doesn't say a word as he waits, watching the minuscule expressions that flash across Yuuri's face at the speed of light. He initially assumed that Yuuri was easy to read, but now Viktor feels that assumption was woefully inadequate. He could spend years with Yuuri and perhaps never be able to track the slight quirks of Yuuri's eyebrows or understand why Yuuri's eyes seem to fly across the ceiling, as if reading writing that is hidden from Viktor's sight.

He's beginning to think Yuuri will deny his request when the storyteller asks, "What do you know about magic?"

"Not much, only that it began to die out before I was born. It's rumored that only a handful of Great Mages are still alive."

Yuuri nods slowly and takes a deep breath before he says, "Just like all aspects of nature, there's a legend that tells of the creation of magic on our world. It's said that long ago, before even this kingdom existed, before people understood how to build large societies and lived only in small villages along riverbeds, a young woman fell in love with the moon."

The steady heat from the fire suddenly fades, and Viktor tugs his gaze away from Yuuri's profile to the hearth. Inside, the fire that Minako stoked is squashed to a low blaze, and Viktor watches as a young woman forms in the flames, her hair fluttering around her face, a dress seeming to billow out to the side.

"Humanity hadn't yet created complicated economies or paved trade routes from one village to another, but cruelty to others is a flaw that has plagued humankind since its birth. The people of her village shunned her. Unable to stand the sight of her face, they decried that her ugliness was the sign of a curse from the gods. One day, she fled."

Hills and trees form in the fire, rising and falling rapidly as the woman runs in place. The shifts in scenery around her make it look like she sprints through the hearth. Viktor thinks he's forgotten how to breathe.

"The woman ran to her haven, a place she found as a child and returned to whenever she could not handle the cruelty of her kind. It was a natural spring, hidden deep in the forest. Here, the trees parted abruptly, allowing just a slight circle of the sky to shine down on a well; its depth unimaginable."

Fire suddenly parts, leaving just embers of coal in the middle of the hearth as the flame woman kneels at its edge, peering down.

"She would often go there at night and stare at the reflection of the moon in the spring for hours. The moon, she found, was the only one who would keep her gaze without scorn. It stared back at her, despite the radiance of its own beauty. Since she did not know kindness of any form, the woman believed this to be unconditional love."

Yuuri shifts in his seat, clearing his throat before he murmurs, "That night, the hatred of her kind proved too heavy to carry, and the woman flung herself into the well, hoping to finally unite with her love."

The flame figure melts into the embers and is snuffed out, leaving just the ring of the tree line around the makeshift well. Viktor feels the corner of his eyes prickle with tears as he says, "She drowned."

"Yes," Yuuri murmurs, "but the Moon felt pity for her, and sent the woman a gift. While submerged in the well, the water began to glow, infused with the Moon's grace. It seeped into the woman's lungs and changed her blood from red to silver, taking her away from the humanity that scorned her and toward the world of Nature to which she had always shown kindness."

Sparks begin to fly, popping out of the circle of embers with increasing frequency until a plume of fire sprouts from it, reaching the tops of the hearth. In its heart, Viktor can barely make out the woman, her arms reaching up into the sky, as if trying to touch the moonlight that filters from the tavern windows to where they sit.

"When her feet returned to land, she was a mage; one of the beings who live on the intersection of humanity and deity. She left the well and traveled, taking in others who were scorned like her and gifting them with some of her powers until their numbers were plentiful enough that they formed a tribe."

More figures grow from the flames, following the woman as she walks through the hearth, occasionally kneeling to touch the ground and call forth another figure.

"The mages settled down in a village in the middle of a forest, much like the one she had once called home. At its center was a spring dedicated as an altar to the Moon; and the Moon protected the villagers as if they were her own."

"What was the woman’s name?" Viktor asks.

There is silence, only the crackle of the fire fills the tavern, all of the other guests having long since left or made their way up to their rooms.

Eventually, Yuuri says, "Asami. Katsuki Asami."

At the name, Viktor frowns slightly; it tugs at a memory he can't quite recall, the weight of it as it rolls off Yuuri's tongue implies an importance that Viktor cannot name.  He watches as the woman, Asami, turns her face out to the moonlight before waving and melting back into the flames.


	4. the reports

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the wolf, the Queen of Kiev wants to know more about the storyteller.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this chapter for almost a week because I thought I wanted to add an extra scene...

 

 

_Saturday, the 189th day of the 29th year of the reign of Her Majesty, Queen Isidora Nikiforova._

_Report by Sir Christophe Giacometti, Captain of the Prince’s Guard._

At Your Majesty’s request, I have prepared the following analysis of the threat the storyteller, Yuuri, possesses to Prince Nikiforov.

The facts of yesterday’s excursion are as follows: the prince led the hunting expedition East in the hopes of seeing Yuuri once more, when he spotted Yuuri in the forest he requested we stay behind so they could speak privately, a rabid wolf attacked the prince and with assistance from Lady Babicheva the wolf was slain, upon inspecting the wolf Yuuri fell unconscious, the wolf dissolved into dust.

It is our consensus that the wolf was magical in origin.

From the above, it is my belief that one of three things may have occurred:

First, the meeting between the prince and Yuuri was coincidence, the wolf was sent to attack Yuuri, the prince defeated the animal, some sort of magical backlash caused Yuuri to faint.
Second, the meeting between the prince and Yuuri was coincidence, the wolf was sent to attack the prince, the prince defeated the animal, a magical backlash caused Yuuri to faint.
Third, upon learning the prince was in the area, Yuuri put himself in the prince’s path, sent or lured the wolf to their location, the prince defeated the animal, magical exhaustion caused Yuuri to faint.


Without further magical knowledge, it is impossible for a man such as myself to determine which of the above is accurate. However, I can confirm the following: Yuuri does not carry physical weapons and while in a healthy state he does not have the physique of a trained fighter. If Yuuri does harbor ill intent toward the prince, he will not be able to attack him through physical means.

Based on my observations, and accounts from Lady Babicheva, Squire Plisetsky, and Prince Nikiforov, it is of my belief that Yuuri means the prince no harm. From Yuuri’s private interactions with the prince, it seems evident that he was worried for the prince’s safety and he seems well-liked by the people of the village. Unfortunately, my limited interactions with him give me nothing more to support my belief than intuition.

 

* * *

 

Yuri stands at parade rest, his gaze fixed above the heads of the two pairs of eyes that were trained on his face since he stepped foot in the small audience chamber. He already picked out the guards stationed throughout the room, present more for ceremony than out of any concern of what he might do, but extra ears mean he must be extra careful with his words.

His knight commander might be a pain in the ass, but he was a better man than 80% of the nobles at court, and Yuri had no plans to cause him trouble.

It’s been several minutes since he straightened from his bow, and Yuri can hear a soft murmuring coming from the dais before him. In front of any other, he might have already made a wry comment about this being a waste of his time, but instead, Yuri waits.

“Squire Plisetsky, how goes your training?”

He blinks at the question, not at all prepared for small talk with the monarch of Kiev. Yuri flicks his gaze down to briefly meet ice blue eyes before he says, “It goes well, Your Majesty.”

There’s another stretch of silence before he hears the sound of ruffling fabric as the queen stands from her throne, a pointed look thrown in the direction of her adviser. “We do believe this will go smoother in private. Let us step into the conference room.”

It takes a few moments for the words to sink in, and by the time they do the queen has already crossed to the side of the audience chamber. Yuri hastens to follow behind as a guard opens the door for the monarch. The conference room is small, with no space for Yuri to avoid the fact that he is alone with the queen.

“Please, take a seat,” she says, settling into the chair at the head of the table. “We told Andrei the formality of the audience chamber was unnecessary but he disagreed.”

Yuri sits as bid, trying to convince his body to release some of the nerves currently keeping his back rigid and his shoulders tense. He has seen Viktor nearly every day for the better part of three years, Yuri feels more at ease around him than some of the squires near his age; he can hear Viktor’s laughter when someone tells him about how nervous Yuri behaved around his mother.

“Viktor is aware that we summoned you here, we do not want you believing you are betraying his confidence. His account of the events of two days previously will be requested, but we have a few questions that need to be answered first.”

“I will answer your questions to the best of my ability, Your Majesty.”

Queen Isidora nods and leans back in her seat. Her fingers slide together, her head tilted in such a Viktor-like expression that it helps Yuri relax slightly. “What do you make of this storyteller that has captured his attention?”

“I-” Yuri automatically opens his mouth to decry the storyteller as a scam artist, but the words die on his throat. “It’s hard to say. I think he wants to be left alone.”

“Why is that?”

“Regardless of how he does his trick with the fire, there are probably dozens of nobles who would pay to have him as a retainer in Kiev alone, but he stays hidden in that village. The prince said he offered two gold pieces and the storyteller refused to take them. If he was after riches or fame he would make a fuss in the capital, but I bet only the people in the Lower City know he exists.”

The queen’s face is unreadable as she studies Yuri, on the other end of her stare he can suddenly understand why she was given the moniker of the “Ice Queen”. Meeting her majesty at parties and festive occasions certainly did nothing to prepare Yuri for the cool calculation that radiates from her in private.

Clearing his throat, Yuri threw caution to the wind. “Your Majesty, may I ask a question of my own?” A single eyebrow lifts in an unspoken prompt. “This matter hardly seems like something that requires your individual attention. Why are you investigating?”

The corners of her lips twitch, and Yuri swears he sees a flash of amusement before it is gone. “If there is magic at play directly engaging with our heir, it is a matter we must have absolute knowledge over. Your insight has been appreciated.”

It is a dismissal that Yuri recognizes immediately, and he gets to his feet.

“Squire Plisetsky, it goes without saying, but discussing the events of your trip with anyone besides myself and those who were present is prohibited.”

“Understood, Your Majesty.” Yuri sweeps her a bow and leaves the room.

 

* * *

  

 

 

_Prepared by Lady Mila Babicheva solely for the eyes of Her Majesty:_

On the matter of one Yuuri (family name unknown), hereafter referred to as ‘the storyteller’.

Approximately five years ago, a young man began to attend major festivals in Kiev’s capital as a street performer. His unique act includes the elements of fire, water, and air depicting actions within the chosen tales. It is a popular attraction for many locals and several vendors return to Kiev for the express purpose of witnessing his tales. Due to this popularity, and the strange nature of his performances, the storyteller was placed under my purview as part of my training program.

The storyteller lives in a small village to the East of the capital on the outskirts of a forest. He makes his living as the local healer where he delivers babes and spins protection charms for those who request. By all accounts, his charms and teas are more effective than any that can be purchased within the capital and several capital citizens travel to the town for the express purpose of buying his wares.

In regard to his relationship with His Royal Highness, the crown prince; it is my advisement that the prince and storyteller should have continued contact, exercised with due caution.

It is on the following grounds that their continued contact may prove beneficial to the Crown:

Whereas; first-hand reports indicate the storyteller to be a gifted healer, having achieved matters such as spelling away infectious diseases and healing near-fatal wounds.

Whereas; the current royal mage does not specialize in healing magic. On such an occasion that a plague broke out amongst our kingdom, Lord Romanov would be able to do little to ensure the Crown’s continued longevity.

Whereas; an established bond between HRH and the storyteller could make the storyteller more amenable to attending the Crown in such a time of distress.

Whereas; there is no successor for Lord Romanov’s title, and HRH would benefit from finding a suitable candidate while he is not on the throne.

After observing their interactions within a group, and when they assumed themselves to be alone, it is my belief that the storyteller does not mean HRH any harm. The storyteller seemed concerned for HRH’s livelihood and seems to have no motive for actions against the Crown. It is unlikely that the storyteller is aware of HRH’s real identity and, due to the numerous variables involved, it is unlikely that their initial meeting was manufactured by either the storyteller or a third party.

With all the above in mind, it is also my sworn duty to consider possible risks, which is why continued contact should be heavily monitored and cautiously undertaken.

The storyteller has shown to be able to hide his thoughts and emotions and to avoid lines of questioning he does not wish to answer. His skill and intelligence in maneuvering a subtle interrogation would be at home with Your Majesty’s court. In addition, it is obvious that the storyteller knows information regarding the attack on HRH within the forest and has withheld such information from both HRH and HRH’s associates. At best, the storyteller does not think the information vital or does not wish to reveal how much he knows; at worst, the storyteller is deliberately withholding the information because he wishes HRH harm.

It is also my concern that HRH firmly believes the storyteller to be innocent of any suspicions, which leaves him susceptible to possible manipulation.

Regardless of continued interaction between the above parties, surveillance on the storyteller will continue until such time that Your Majesty deems it unnecessary or the storyteller leaves the borders of our kingdom.

 

* * *

 

The heels of Viktor's boots click as he strides through the palace corridors, the unforgiving leather worn whenever he is not in fighting gear makes it impossible for him to move without being noticed. He pays no mind to the servants who dip into bows and curtseys as he walks past, his attention focused on his destination for his final meeting of the day.

Guards stand at alert on either side of the doors that lead to the small audience chamber, and they salute when Viktor pauses in front of them. He takes a moment to smooth his hands over the front of his tunic (even though the stiff fabric is not so much a centimeter out of place) and he brushes a few errant strands of hair away from his face. Once satisfied, he nods to the guards, who immediately push open the doors.

Viktor glides into the audience chamber, his movements graceful in a way that speaks to years of training (both in combat and in courtly matters).

The moment he steps foot inside the chamber, a herald is striking his staff to the floor. "Announcing His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov."

It is late in the day, most courtiers would normally already have bid their goodbyes and retired for the evening, but it is rare for Viktor to be formally summoned before the queen, and the outburst of murmurs indicates many stayed simply to catch a glimpse of this unusual interaction. Viktor doesn't spare them so much as a glance as he crosses the room, he keeps his head high, eyes focused on the dais at the front of the chamber.

Queen Isidora Nikiforova cuts a commanding figure atop her golden throne. Viktor is often told he is the spitting image of his mother, having inherited her ice blue eyes and fine silver hair. The queen's locks are twisted into a braid that drapes over her shoulder, drops of sapphire pendants artfully woven throughout. More sapphires twinkle from her earlobes and glint up from rings on her fingers, complimenting the deep blue of her gown and showing off the prosperity of their kingdom. The crown sits on her head as if she was born with it in place, the golden spikes that shoot up in varying lengths recalling images of sunbeams or icicles. She looks ageless, her posture rigid and perfect, her face free of wrinkles and spots. Her sharp cheekbones and arched brows give her a stern appearance as does her piercing gaze. Viktor knows that countless others have been scared into silence when looking up at such a sight.

Once at the foot of the dais, he sweeps into a low bow. "Your Majesty, may Maeve's blessings shine upon you."

"You may rise, Prince Nikiforov," the queen's voice is clear, no doubt easily heard in every corner of the room as Viktor straightens from his bow. "We are pleased to find you in good health after your sudden absence from court."

Growing up, it was often difficult for Viktor to understand the steps to this elaborate dance he was forced to perform with his mother in public. For a child, reconciling the woman who read him bedtime stories in increasingly undignified voices and rocked him back to sleep after nightmares with the one who sat on a throne, face expressionless, words creating a barrier between them, was nearly impossible. As an adult, he can hear the underlying message in her words, an unspoken 'I'm glad you are home safe', and it pulls the corners of his lips up in a smile only the queen can see.

"Thank you for your kind words, Your Majesty."

Queen Isidora drums her fingers on the armrest of her throne before abruptly standing. Viktor doesn't need to turn to know all the courtiers at his back are sinking into bows as she descends the steps of the dais. "There are matters which we wish to discuss with you in private."

Inclining his head to show respect, Viktor offers his arm, waiting for the queen to place her hand on the inner crook of his elbow before turning and making his way back down the audience chamber. This time, he takes in the expressions of the courtiers they pass, inwardly smug about the slight grimaces he sees on the faces of the gossip-mongers.

Their destination is the queen's private sitting room, where Viktor is unsurprised to see tea and snacks already waiting out. He can't say he has ever seen his mother make a truly spontaneous decision in front of the court, everything is calculated and planned out several steps in advance. It is how she has been able to keep such an iron grip on everything that goes on within Kiev's borders.

When the doors to the sitting room close, leaving them completely alone, her fingers move to the crown on her head and she pulls it off, placing it on a plush pillow on a side table. "I'm sorry for the ceremony, but rumors were flying about your absence, I needed to make sure it was obvious that you are still in good standing."

More than the removal of the crown, it is the shift in her language, that marks they have moved from monarch and vassal to mother and son. Viktor gives her a true smile as he takes a seat. "It's fine, mother, I understand."

A smile of her own melts the sternness of Isidora's face and she sits across from him. "That's not to say that I do not have several questions for you, Vitya."

He bites back a sigh, berating himself for believing his presence had been requested for some quality time with his mother. "Did Mila not turn in a comprehensive report?"

Isidora cocks an eyebrow, her gaze seeming to sharpen over the edge of her teacup as she takes a sip. When she pulls it away from her lips she says, "both the young Babicheva and your guard captain turned in concise reports, and I'm sure your squire told you that he was summoned to give me a report as well. But if there is magic at play, and targeting you, I cannot be too careful." Everything she says makes perfect sense, and Viktor opens his mouth to apologize for the snide remark, but his mother continues without pause. "Tell me about this storyteller: Yuuri."

With a wry laugh, Viktor leans back in his seat. "What is there to tell that you don't already know from the other reports?"

"Plisetsky tells me that he doesn't believe the storyteller has real magic, but also thinks that he stays in that small village because he doesn't want to draw attention to himself. Giacometti believes he means you no harm, and Babicheva," Viktor perks up slightly at Mila's name, aware that her months of surveilling Yuuri before they even met would hold the highest weight out of all his friends' opinions, "has advised me to continue with cautious optimism. It is important to acknowledge the thoughts of those who support you, but equally important for a ruler to know how to read people on their own. What does your gut tell you?"

A shy smile rises to the front of Viktor's mind, and he feels an answering one tug at his lips due to the memory. "It tells me that Yuuri is a good person."

Isidora nods thoughtfully. "And his magic?"

That question makes Viktor pause. It's something he's been trying to unravel since he first saw Yuuri in the marketplace. The fact that the magic responds to nothing more than Yuuri's voice is unlike any spellcasting Viktor has ever heard of. "I think what he does with the fire is real. I don't know if it is magic, but...the beast that attacked me was magic."

"Why do you say that?"

"It was unnatural, it wanted to kill me, I could feel it." The words drop from his mouth slowly, Viktor has all but forgotten that he is speaking with his mother as his memory turns to the wolf. "And then it just dissolved. And Yuuri, when he woke up, he wanted to know if anyone might want to cause me harm. I think he believes someone sent that wolf after me."

Silence falls between them, heavy with the implication of what Viktor has just said. It is not foreign territory for either of them to have their lives targeted, but fighting against magic is something they have little experience with.

Viktor breaks the silence first, daring to ask a question that loomed in the back of his mind since learning Yuuri was being monitored by the palace. "Have you told Lord Romanov about him?"

"No," Isidora's fast answer soothes some of Viktor's nerves, "our royal mage is little more than a party trick, but he has resources. If he thinks there is another talent nearby I would not put it past him to scare the competition away. Still, he is the most well-versed in magic at our disposal, if this becomes an issue he will need to be informed."

"Yuuri told me about the first mage," Viktor says, "maybe he knows more about magic than Romanov."

The queen's lips curl into a bemused smile. "Vitya, is that your honest opinion or are you just trying to convince me to let you see him?"

"Probably fifty-fifty," Viktor replies without shame, smiling when it pulls a laugh from his mother. "It is nice to speak to someone who doesn't know who I am."

“If I ordered you to stop seeing him, what would you do?”

His tongue feels heavy as he answers, “I will obey you as my queen, and as my mother.”

Isidora’s eyes scan Viktor’s face, searching for any sign of deception. After a long moment, she says, "I have no reason to give such an order at this moment. Continue your visits. However, I do have several conditions for the sake of your safety. You are not to visit the village alone, and under no circumstances do you reveal your real identity. Your goals are to determine the strength of his magic and to learn what he knows of the beast who attacked you. Is that clear, Viktor?"

As the crown prince, Viktor takes the directive from his queen with a decisive nod. He’ll ask questions and pay close attention to everything he sees when he visits Yuuri. He’ll try to learn what Yuuri knows and determine if, just maybe, Yuuri’s magic is strong enough to bring him to the palace.

As Isidora’s only child, his smile grows just slightly at this clear sign of leniency from his mother. There are people less valuable to the country’s future that could assess Yuuri while Viktor is locked in meetings or parties. He wouldn’t begrudge her deciding it wasn’t safe enough for Viktor to travel outside the city walls for the time being. Instead, she is allowing him to have the time to just be _Viktor_ rather than Prince Nikiforov.

He hopes his gratitude shows in his eyes as he says, "Perfectly clear."


	5. the charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri gives Viktor a gift.

It has been a long time since Yuuri did a magical working this complex.

Sweat slides down his forehead, threatening to blur his vision and disrupt his work as he meticulously wraps fine silver wire around a hollow iron circle no larger than a gold piece. As he works, the wire that passes through his fingers glows a bright gold to his unfiltered Sight; more gold pools around his fingertips, the pressure of magic pent up from disuse makes his hands tingle, the sensation so continual that it feels numbing. Despite being out of practice, he can’t afford to flood the silver with his power and ruin his work, so he carefully monitors how much he pours into the small pendant.

He has put off making this amulet for nearly a week, caught between a desire to help keep Viktor safe and disbelief that such a confident man would ever want his help.

Not even the memory of Viktor’s last words, spoken from horseback after a night spent at Minako’s inn, eases Yuuri’s doubts. Just because Viktor claimed he wanted to visit Yuuri in the future, it doesn’t mean that he meant what he said, gives no proof that they will ever see each other again.

But glowing red eyes and bared fangs have haunted Yuuri’s sleep, and he finally made the decision that if Viktor does seek him out again, Yuuri will send him away with protection.

Yuuri has no doubt that Viktor can hold his own in a battle and there’s something about his easy way with words and charisma that indicates Viktor can maneuver political traps as well as physical ones, but magic is where Yuuri’s knowledge vastly outstrips Viktor, and he doubts there’s anyone in the capital that can create a talisman strong enough to combat the mystery attacker.

A protection charm is child’s play.

Yuuri himself learned how to imprint a protection spell onto an average object when he was five.

Lessons taught him that iron is the cheapest receptacle that enhances such charms, while stronger spells benefit from pure silver.

The sheer strength of Yuuri’s ability allows him to rely on iron for the amulets he sells out of his shop, but to combat the malice that nearly swallowed him whole, Yuuri dug into his stash of silver. He makes decent money from the items he sells, and even more from when he visits the festival, but the sheer amount of silver he devotes to this one talisman will be enough to make his coin purse hurt for several weeks.

It’s worth it.

When the wire is tightly coiled around the iron circle, Yuuri cuts the rest of the strand and melts the ends together with a spark of heat.

Next, he reaches for a length of thin blue string, wrapping it more loosely around the circle. As he works, he can hear his mother’s voice, giving him one of hundreds of lectures on magical theory:

_“Nearly everything found in nature has a power of its own. Different colors help fortify spells in different ways. For example, what do you think of when you see the color blue, Yuuri-kun?”_

_Only five years old, Yuuri had frowned thoughtfully before saying, “The sky!”_

_It pulled a laugh from his mother, “That’s good, but blue means a lot more than that. It’s the color of the water, or it reminds us of being cold. It helps bring feelings of peace, harmony, or loyalty; security or protection. Each color has many meanings. Learning them all will make your magic stronger.”_

He’s smiling at the memory as he finishes wrapping the string and ties it off. A simple chain is slid through the center of the pendant and Yuuri lets out a long exhale, shoving his magic under the surface once more.

This much he can do for Viktor.

Yuuri lets the amulet dangle from his fingers as he considers it, watching as the steady glow of gold fades until it’s no longer visible. If Viktor comes back, and if Yuuri can get him to wear the charm, it will keep the other man safe from magical attacks.

Now that his concentration is broken, he can feel the lingering effects of the complexity of the spell that he worked into the silver. His body feels drained, as if he’s already completed a full day of work despite it not even being midday.

With a sigh, he puts the charm in a small velvet bag and closes it, cleaning up his work materials before putting a kettle on the fire for some tea. The water is just coming to a boil when a knock sounds on the front door, and Yuuri pulls the kettle off and makes his way through the back room to his shop.

When he pulls open the door, he's surprised to be greeted with a beaming smile and a pair of sparkling blue eyes, "Hi, Yuuri!"

"Viktor?" Yuuri wonders if seeing Viktor will ever stop coming as a shock, "what are you doing here?"

"I told you I would come back to visit soon, and I didn't get to see your shop the last time."

Yuuri glances past Viktor to the street, bewildered to see that no one is nearby, "Did you come all by yourself?"

Viktor waves a hand through the air in an unconcerned manner, "Chris and Yurio rode to the village with me but they're at Minako's tavern," Viktor's smile falters, "I'm not interrupting something, am I?"

The look of concern that fills Viktor's eyes is so genuine that Yuuri feels bad for leaving him on his doorstep. With a quick shake of his head, he steps aside to let Viktor in, "No, I was just about to have some tea. Do you want to join me?"

Silence accompanies the thud of the wooden door swinging shut and, frowning, Yuuri turns to see why Viktor hasn't replied.

Viktor is standing in the middle of the open space of Yuuri's shop, mouth open slightly as his eyes dart around to take in every possible surface as rapidly as he can. Feeling his stomach twist in knots, Yuuri shifts his own attention to see if something is out of place. He knows that his shop can't compare to the sort of stores Viktor sees in the capital, but he takes pride in the goods he does produce.

" _Yuuri_ ," his name is little more than a whisper when it finally leaves Viktor's mouth, and it's tinged with an emotion that Yuuri would call awe if it was being used to refer to literally anyone besides himself, "you made all of this?"

"Almost all of it," Yuuri explains, waving his hand to the wall to the left, lined with shelves from floor to ceiling and stocked with jars and pots of various shapes and sizes, "most of the stuff over there are just herbs and berries that I find and sell for homemade remedies. I mix some of it into teas by order," he motions in the direction of a sturdy table just by the left wall, covered with more jars, these ones mixtures of the herbs on the wall, "and then I sell premade teas as well."

"And over there?" Viktor points at the right wall, where hooks jut out from the wood; charms, pendants, and talismans cluster in a way that only makes sense to someone with knowledge of their properties, but even someone with no magical affinity can be astounded by the sheer volume of some of the charms compared to others.

"Charms: for protection, health, prosperity, the usual stuff," he says with a shrug. Yuuri knows what he sells in this shop can be found in half a dozen others in the capital so he doesn’t see them as special or awe-worthy (even if he's confident his wares work where others might be little more than a scam).

Viktor looks as if he has never stepped foot in such a shop because he crosses towards the wall of dangling pendants and reaches out, brushing his finger against a charm meant to prevent pregnancy, a smile spreading across his face, "This is amazing! I knew you didn't tell stories all the time but your shop is wonderful! What is back there?"

His question is tacked on as an afterthought, and it takes Yuuri a second to push past the light buzz that filled his head at Viktor's genuine compliments to understand the other man is referring to the back wall that separates Yuuri's home from his shop. A counter sits there, for him to handle purchases and work on projects while he's manning the front of the shop. Behind the counter are a few more shelves, all their wares sparkle a dull gold in Yuuri's sight; the sign of the spells he weaved around his more valuable and dangerous goods to prevent them from being stolen.

Attempting to brush off the curiosity, Yuuri gives a slight shrug, "Just things I'm working on."

Evidently, he isn't convincing, because Viktor is setting off toward the back wall almost as soon as the words leave Yuuri's mouth, jolting Yuuri into movement so he can follow behind. The concepts of privacy or personal space seem to be lost on this odd man and he steps behind the counter as if he's been working at Yuuri's shop his whole life. Blue eyes carefully scan the items on display before pausing in front of a row of clear vials, held in place on a wooden stand. Viktor plucks one from its holder and turns it over in his hands, studying the pitch-black liquid inside curiously.

"This is a potion," he says, with the confidence of someone who has seen one before, and if Yuuri wasn't so preoccupied with the way his heart is trying to pound out of his chest, he would question Viktor's confidence.

"Uh, yes."

Viktor tilts his head, finger tapping the stopper on the vial as if he wants to pull it off but some instinct of self-preservation is telling him to leave it alone, "What does it do?"

Yuuri's mouth is dry.

Anyone familiar with the sorts of people who tend apothecaries or magic shops knows better than to browse the back wall. The items on it are only for sale to those who know exactly what they are looking for.

Yuuri briefly wishes the ground would open and swallow him whole so he can avoid this conversation, because he can't tell Viktor what it is. Not only was this potion outlawed in all civilized lands nearly a hundred years ago, but the knowledge required to make it goes beyond the homegrown village healer persona Yuuri has adopted. It is honestly against his, and Minako's, better judgment for him to have it on display considering its potency (and its vile purpose).

"It's for when I care for the sick," Yuuri finds himself saying, trying to speak a half-truth, trying to find some way to avoid lying to Viktor again because it's incredibly difficult to do when blue eyes are looking at him with such undisguised curiosity, a desire to learn evident in every line of his body, "it's made of rare ingredients and takes a long time to brew, so I only use it for those who are near death's door."

"What does it do?" Viktor repeats the question.

"It...," Yuuri hesitates, then lies, "it eases the pain while they wait."

At that, darkness flickers across Viktor's face, and he puts the vial back with care before scanning the rest of the wall, "Are they all like that?"

Yuuri considers the other items, all just as illegal as the last; some of them he only has displayed to weed out potentially dangerous customers with bait, "Yes, they are."

They stand in silence, both men staring at the wall; Viktor imagining the horrible things each item might be used for, while Yuuri remembers the fact that he personally crafted almost everything there. Yuuri's eyes catch on a ring on the top shelf, hidden from everyone but the keenest observers. Even in the glass jar Yuuri has it locked inside, he can feel the malice that radiates from it, nearly as sickening as what he felt on the wolf. Despite the fact that Viktor is taller than Yuuri, and older, and a much better fighter, Viktor suddenly looks vulnerable standing next to that artifact and Yuuri has an overwhelming urge to get Viktor away from it.

He clears his throat, "Did you want some tea?"

Viktor blinks himself out of his reverie and smiles back at Yuuri, "Did you make it yourself?"

Nodding, Yuuri leads the way through the door to the back half of the cottage, his living space, "There's no point going to the capital to buy teas when I can make what I like." He waves Viktor into one of the two seats in front of his hearth and gets to work fixing two cups, "you know, I wasn't expecting to see you so soon."

"Why not?"

Yuuri shrugs, handing one cup to Viktor and settling into the open chair, "Well you guard the crown prince, right? It must not be easy for you to just leave your post when you feel like it."

"I'm on good terms with the guard captain," Viktor replies, pulling a confused frown from Yuuri, and he raises an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

"I just assumed you would be captain. Your swordsmanship is amazing."

A grin spreads across Viktor's face, "You flatter me. There's a lot more to the job than how you hold your sword. For example, you can't just go off to visit a brilliant mage in the forest, so I'm not sure it's a post worth the fanfare."

It takes Yuuri too long to recognize the title Viktor gives him, correct by definition, but wrong coming from this man's lips, and he shakes his head with a shy smile of his own, "I'm not much of a mage. Besides, the royal family has a mage in their service, I'm sure you've seen him do loads of brilliant things."

"Nope," Viktor replies without pause, "I've only seen amazing magic once before I met you, when I was a boy," he taps his finger against his mouth, trying to recall the memory, "I'll have to ask my mother when that was because I don't remember much. Just the lights."

"I don't do amazing magic," Yuuri protests, more focused on keeping his cover than keeping track of Viktor's story, "just little tricks."

Blue eyes are twinkling in amusement, giving Yuuri the impression that Viktor has already made up his mind about the extent of Yuuri's ability. No amount of evidence or disagreement will likely get Viktor to change his mind, and Yuuri isn't sure whether he's more amused or exasperated that just three meetings with this man has taught him how stubborn Viktor is when he sets his mind to something.

Deciding it's best to drop the conversation, Yuuri drains his cup and gets to his feet, moving to pick up the small velvet pouch he put away not even an hour previously. He returns to his seat, eyes fixed on where he opens the pouch and pulls on the silver chain until the charm dangles from his fingers.

“Here,” Yuuri mumbles, holding out the amulet, resolutely trying to ignore the way his cheeks start to warm, “as a thank you for keeping me safe that day in the forest.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” the protest is immediate and firm.

“I made it for you.”

Viktor blinks in surprise and reaches out to take the amulet, running his fingers over the silver wire of the pendant. It’s difficult to read the emotion in his eyes as he studies the talisman and if Yuuri hadn’t already been positive that Viktor has no affinity for magic then he might have been worried that the other man could see the spells worked into the metal.

A smile stretches across Viktor’s face and Yuuri lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding, “Thank you, Yuuri.”

“Can you put it on now?”

Yuuri doesn’t know if there is a way to make this request without sounding pushy. Frankly, he doesn’t care; Viktor’s safety is more important to him than trying to beat around the bush.

(If he dwells on _why_ Viktor’s safety is so crucial to him, Yuuri’s sure he’ll never have a good night of sleep again.)

It’s fortunate that Viktor’s smile merely widens and he pulls the amulet over his head to let it hang around his neck. As soon as the pendant drops against Viktor’s chest, Yuuri can See a soft golden glow surround the taller man and the knot in his stomach eases slightly.

Belatedly, he realizes Viktor's mouth is moving and he tugs himself from his thoughts with an apologetic smile, "Pardon?"

"Is this one of the charms you sell?" Viktor repeats his question, leaning forward slightly to indicate his interest in the topic.

Running a hand through his hair, Yuuri says, "Kind of? It is a charm but I don't sell any quite like that one."

"Why not? What's different about it?"

"It's yours."

It's both the simplest answer and the most honest one Yuuri can give. The charms he sells from his shop are general, made to increase the wearer's fortune subtly, like a fall of good luck. The charm currently resting against Viktor's neck is specifically designed to protect Viktor; if someone else were to put it on it might work as well as any of Yuuri's generic pieces, but for Viktor it is as good as a shield.

Viktor is fiddling with the pendant, eyes downcast as he seems to consider Yuuri's nonanswer, looking for hidden meanings. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, as if he's afraid of someone overhearing their conversation, "Yuuri, do you think I'm in danger?"

The question surprises Yuuri, and he blinks, not sure what to make of it, "No, I don't."

It's only a partial lie. As long as the pendant stays around Viktor's neck there's no cause for concern.

"Would you tell me if you thought I was?"

There's something odd about Viktor's tone, it reminds Yuuri of the night of the wolf's attack, when he had been talking to Viktor's friends. The woman, Mila, had asked Yuuri questions in a similar tone; in a way she made the conversation feel more like an interrogation. And, just like that night, Viktor's inquiries are difficult to answer without Yuuri revealing his identity.

Carefully schooling his face into an earnest expression, Yuuri nods firmly, "I would."

Blue eyes don't stray from Yuuri's face as Viktor hums, giving no indication of whether he believes Yuuri's response. Yuuri can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, and the irrational part of him wonders if Viktor can hear it too. The moment passes in the space of a breath, Viktor's sharp expression melting into a gentle smile, "Thanks, Yuuri. I appreciate it."

Seizing the chance to change the subject, Yuuri leans back in his seat and pours himself a second cup of tea, "I assume you can't stay long, but will you tell me a story?"

Viktor's smile widens and he laughs, "It would be fair for me to tell the story for once, but I'm afraid I can't tell any of the legends like you can."

"Then tell me a story I've never heard before."

Viktor's brows burrow together as he thinks through Yuuri's request, a single finger coming up to rest on his lips. Yuuri smiles into his teacup at the expression of utter seriousness but he doesn't rush the other man. He can see the moment Viktor decides by the way Viktor's eyes widen slightly and his smile returns, "Do you want to hear a story of a prank Chris and I pulled during our training?"

Raising an eyebrow, Yuuri muses, "I was under the impression you must have been a model student."

A wink and a smirk are his answer and Viktor launches into his story.

 

* * *

 

Summers in Kiev are short. At best, they last little more than two months before giving way to a long fall and an even longer winter.

Viktor was born in the dead of winter, has grown up in a kingdom where seeing the countryside covered in snow is more common than seeing flowers in bloom. He revels the sparse weeks of sunshine, covets them more than any of the jewels or precious metals that adorn his chambers.

Where he lays, sprawled in the grass of the royal gardens, the sunshine streaming down on him and warming his face, he feels more human than he usually does when he is inside the castle walls. He twirls a dandelion in his fingers, having plucked it from the ground with a fond smile at the memory of Yuuri teasing him over the bloom. In front of him, the yapping of his poodle, taking just as much advantage of the warm weather by rolling in the grass, drowns out the faint noise of the outdoor practice courts just around the corner.

Humming a familiar tune under his breath, he drops his attention back to the book cracked open in front of him and flips the page. His eyes scan for any meaningful information before flipping again.

He's been out here for several hours now.

The pile of books to his left indicates the ones he's already breezed through, while the dwindling stack on his right are the ones he still has left. Soon it will be time for him to make another trip to the library to pick out another pile, but even though the information he's gleaned from their contents is sparse, Viktor can't find it in himself to feel discouraged.

It was always going to be a long shot that he would find anything meaningful about magic and its users in the Kievan Royal Library. After all, his kingdom was not one that used to have a powerful magic stronghold. Those kingdoms have long since fallen under the expansion of the bloodthirsty empire that sits on his southern border.

If Viktor wasn't so reluctant to bring more attention to Yuuri, he would try his hand at speaking to the Royal Mage and getting his questions answered. If Yuuri wasn't as intelligent as he is, Viktor would simply ask him questions the next time they saw each other, but Viktor noticed the way Yuuri's face closes off whenever he asks a question with a bit too much intent behind it. Gaining information wasn't worth being shut out from Yuuri, certainly not when they were just getting to know each other.

Tucking the dandelion behind one ear, Viktor pulls on one of two silver chains that dangle around his neck. The pendant Yuuri gifted him just a week prior gleams in the sunlight. Bright blue stands out in contrast to the silver, its tight coils speak to how carefully Yuuri had weaved the charm.

When he first put the pendant on, Viktor could have sworn that he felt it flash with heat against his chest, but now it sits cold in his palm. It looks, for all the world, like an average necklace. Even with that deceptive demeanor, Viktor is confident that there is more than meets the eye. After all, Viktor has seen flashes of Yuuri's magic, the walls of charms in Yuuri's shop, the odd potions on Yuuri's back wall, he knows that his charm is anything but ordinary.

In the distance, he hears the clock at Maeve's temple chime the change of hour, and he lets out a soft sigh as it marks the end of his free-time. Folding the corner of his page to save his place, Viktor closes his current book and begins gathering his things.

When he straightens from his spot on the ground, the dandelion falls from behind his ear and flutters toward the grass. Hands full of books, Viktor can’t do anything but watch it fall, and he frowns slightly when the wind snatches the flower before it hits the ground and takes it out of reach.

If he was a superstitious man, Viktor would begin to question the way the wind has seemed to toy with him ever since he saw it dance for Yuuri. Instead, he chalks it up to a summer breeze and turns his attention back to the task at hand.

He doesn't need so much as a whistle to bring Makkachin in from her play, and he laughs as she immediately latches herself to his side so they can begin their walk through the palace corridors.

Between balancing his stacks of books and making his way through the hall without tripping over his still excited poodle, Viktor's makes his trip back to his chambers on muscle memory alone. Given how the servants move out of his path, it shouldn't have been a problem, but as Viktor rounds a corner he collides with someone moving in the opposite direction.

Stumbling backwards, trying to regain his balance, he trips over Makkachin with a wholly undignified yelp and the books in his hands go flying.

As he lands on his arse, Viktor waits for the tomes to collapse in a heap on the palace floors. Instead, they float in mid-air, as if gravity no longer applies to them. Slowly, they reorient themselves into their previous two stacks and Ilya Romanov plucks the top book from the tallest stack, eying it curiously.

" _Children of the Gods: A History of Mages,_ " Romanov's voice is little more than a murmur, nowhere near loud enough for any of the servants to overhear what he says, but Viktor hangs onto every word, "an interesting reading subject, my prince."

Viktor pats Makkachin's head, assuring her that he's alright, before he pushes to his feet, his face instantly falling into the impassive mask he uses in court, "Some light reading."

"Light?" the royal mage echoes, eying the two stacks that still float between them, "it is hard to believe that your highness has time for such reading unless there is a purpose behind it."

It's a pointed jab, the mage calling Viktor's bluff. Viktor locks his jaw, refusing to play into the bait, his eyes hard as he meets Romanov's stare second for second.

Ilya Romanov flips through the book, pausing on the page Viktor had ear-marked, "While books are always a good place to learn new things, the tomes written by those with no magical ability are always questionable in their accuracy. As the Crown's humble servant, it would be my pleasure to answer any questions Your Highness might have."

Viktor slides his hands underneath the two floating stacks, only having to wait a moment before they drop the scant inch between air and skin so that he is holding them once again. His instincts scream at him to continue his walk to his room, to let Romanov come to his own conclusions about what Viktor is researching without Viktor giving a hint more. However, he has no real reason to distrust the mage, has never witnessed Romanov being disloyal to the Nikiforovs. So, Viktor toys with a half-truth.

"I recalled hearing an old epic, quite some time ago, about the first mage in our world and was trying to see if there was any writing to prove the tale true. Her name was Katsuki Asami," he hesitates, before admitting what he had not admitted to Yuuri, "the name Katsuki rang a chord in my memory but I could not place it."

Ilya Romanov raises an eyebrow, but gives no indication about what he thinks of Viktor's story, "As well it should. You met the Katsuki matriarch when you were younger, on a diplomatic trip with your queen mother."

Frowning, Viktor casts his memory back to the few times he has ever left Kiev's borders. He could vaguely remember a trip south when he was still too young to be in his formal knight training. It mixes with his only other memory of magic, of lights dancing in the sky, "But that would've made Katsuki hundreds of years old."

"In the kingdom where the name comes from, individuals are referred to by their family name, and then their given name," Romanov's voice is dry, mocking Viktor for his lack of knowledge, "unfortunately, that kingdom no longer exists thanks to the conquests of the Atreides Empire. In Kiev, we would call the First Mage Asami Katsuki. The woman you met was the last of a dynasty, killed out some years ago with her family."

"Family?"

Black eyes seem to sharpen at the way Viktor latches onto this new information, "Yes, Your Highness. She had a husband and two children, both children had strong magic as was the birthright of the Katsuki lineage. What interest do you have in a deceased woman's children?"

Shaking his head, Viktor files the information away for later review, for a time when dead eyes weren't trying to stare into his soul, and gives the mage a charming smile, "Thank you for taking the time to answer my uneducated queries, Lord Romanov. Good day."

The mage sweeps a shallow bow as Viktor continues his walk to his chambers without a word more, but Viktor can feel the weight of Romanov's questioning gaze at his.  As soon as he makes it to the privacy of his rooms, Viktor heads straight to his desk, putting the books aside in favor of writing a short note. It gets folded and sealed with his signet before he passes it off to a delivery boy as he makes his way toward the council meeting that will consume the rest of his day.

By the time he's free of the council meeting, the sun is waning behind the horizon.

Inside his private sitting room, servants are setting out a meal for two (all the indication that he needs to confirm his note was well received), and he quickly changes into something less stiff and formal before his company visits.

His mother arrives with no fanfare, slipping into the room just as the small group of servants bow and take their leave.

Viktor greets her with a smile and a kiss on the cheek, "I wasn't sure you would be free this evening."

"Whenever I can make time for my only son, it is my pleasure." Isidora says, with a smile of her own as she takes a seat, "I simply told Zarya that we would have to reschedule."

Raising an eyebrow, Viktor carefully scans his mother's face, searching for any crack in her expression that will give him more information, "Oh? And how is Zarya?"

His mother laughs. It's a musical sound that tugs a grin to Viktor's face. When she catches her breath she says, "I believe you are _my_ child, Vitya, not the other way around."

Viktor holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture, "You do so much good for our people, I just want to make sure you're happy as well."

"You didn't invite me here to discuss my love life. What is on your mind?"

"Perhaps I just wanted to spend time with my mother."

Isidora's lips curl into a smirk and she takes a pointed sip of her wine, not needing to say another word to make her point clear. Another time, Viktor might have argued further, but instead he merely admits his defeat with slight toast of his own goblet, "I spoke with Romanov today."

"Of your own volition?"

Rolling his eyes, Viktor ignores the teasing comment, "We were discussing the Katsuki mages."

All hints of laughter die from the queen's face, and she leans forward in her seat, putting her utensils down so she can devote her full attention to her son, "You think your storyteller is a Katsuki."

The thought hasn't formed fully in Viktor's mind yet, but the moment his mother says it, he knows it feels like she plucked the thought from the top of his head and spoke it into reality, "How did you know?"

Isidora answers the question with one of her own, "What do you know about the Katsukis?"

"Supposedly they are descendants of the first mage. Romanov said they were all killed."

"The decline of magic happened steadily for some generations, the population of mages dwindling over the course of centuries. One night, nearly fourteen years ago, the rest of the powerful mages were wiped out in a forest fire. The Katsukis were among those who perished," Isidora explains, "mages aren't entirely human, the more powerful they were, the less any king or army could do to bind them to the law of the land. It was the Katsuki clan that kept order among them. It's speculated that the fire was intentional, used to cover evidence of their murders, but it's never been proved."

"Is there any chance there might be a connection between them?"

"The youngest Katsuki child was a son, you met him when we visited the mage village. You were almost ten," she smiles fondly at the memory, "as soon as this storyteller of yours surfaced I had the Babichevs run checks on his background. There are no written records of the Katsuki clan, and I cannot remember what the son was named, but the chances of him alone escaping whatever killed the rest of his kind are slim. He would have been barely more than a child at the time."

"And what if he is a Katsuki?"

Isidora takes another sip of her wine, considering the possibility as her eyes flick over Viktor's shoulder, going unfocused. Knowing his mother as he does, Viktor knows she is running through dozens of scenarios, the keen intelligence that has helped her keep an iron grip on the throne currently considering every possible angle. When she finally meets his gaze again, her words feel like a warning, "If he is, and he has been in Kiev living as a healer all these years, it means he is hiding from someone powerful enough to kill a village of magic users. Revealing his identity could put our kingdom at risk. For your sake, Vitya, it would be better if this storyteller of yours is no one of significance."

He doesn’t have anything to say in response. Luckily, his mother doesn’t seem to expect one because she changes the topic without pause. Viktor flows with the new line of conversation, but suddenly the small silver charm around his neck feels heavy.


	6. the duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor's skills are put to the test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to go with Sunday updates but I ended up picking up some work on Sunday so here I am, updating on this random Thursday, whoops.

The ring of steel clashing on steel is sharp, echoing through the training yard. Between its clangs, the shouts of drill instructors crack through the air, putting the pages through their paces without mercy. Yuri watches the closest drill with half-lidded eyes, his muscles aching at the phantom memory of years in the position of the younger boys, emphasizing how glad he is that his days as a page are behind him.

He’s several minutes early today, so he has a moment to catch his breath and relax; both of which are things that have come in limited supply since he was chosen as the crown prince’s squire.

As if thoughts of the man summoned him out of the thin air, Viktor leans against the banister next to him. Intricate embroideries and golden jewelry flash under the sunlight, completely at odds with the dirt and sweat of the practice courts, “Which ones are you working with today?”

Yuri lets out a huff of air, slightly annoyed that his moment of peace is being infringed upon, “Aren’t you supposed to be in some council or whatever?”

The prince laughs, aware that Yuri knows full well what council Viktor just left, because Yuri knows Viktor’s schedule better than the prince does, and never misses a chance to needle the point home when the need arises.

“It let out early, I have half an hour before my next meeting,” Viktor answers. “So, which ones are they?”

“Just one,” Yuri admits, “the kid with the brown hair near the front, with the shoddy grip.”

Viktor hums thoughtfully, leaning further against the railing so that Yuri can now make out his profile from the corner of his gaze, “Yakov says you’re doing well with the pages.”

“I have to do something while you’re in all these damned meetings. All my other year mates are off at the borders getting actual combat experience while I’m stuck here going to parties and bowing to ambassadors.”

His response pulls more laughter from Viktor, and scowling, Yuri shifts so he can make sure Viktor knows he’s being serious. The scathing rant on the tip of his tongue dies when he notices the pendant currently dangling from where it usually stays tucked underneath his shirt. It’s comically simple compared to the opulence of the rest of the jewelry adorning the heir to the throne, just a circular metal charm with the royal seal burned into it, but the magnitude of what it represents reminds Yuri exactly why he had worked so hard to beat out the rest of his year mates, to be selected as the prince’s squire (even if the prince is a total pain in his ass).  

Yuri blinks.

Dangling next to the pendant with the royal seal is a necklace he’s never seen before. In fact, Yuri didn’t even notice it until it had gently clinked against the object of his original scrutiny.

“Where did you get that?” he asks.

Viktor glances down, frowning in confusion, “You know that I got it after I was knighted.”

Yuri lets out a dismissive snort, “Not the Champion’s pendant. The other one.” He reaches out and picks up the charm, holding it pinched between two fingers so he can wave it in front of Viktor’s face in a taunting motion.

The prince’s frown deeps as he stares at the pendant, as if Viktor himself hadn’t seen the necklace until Yuri pointed it out.

Viktor recovers rapidly, tossing Yuri a lazy smile that Yuri instantly recognizes as the prince’s ‘court’ smile. It’s disingenuous, doesn’t even reach blue eyes, but to anyone who doesn’t actually know Viktor, it’s easily disarming.

“Oh, I forgot I was wearing it. Yuuri gave it to me.”

At the storyteller’s name, Yuri drops the charm like it burned him, glaring at it suspiciously, “What did he do to it?”

“He made it,” Viktor replies, “he said it’s like the other charms he sells, but you don’t even believe he has magic so it shouldn’t be a problem.” Viktor lets his sentence hang in the air meaningfully, raising an eyebrow as if daring Yuri to walk back his previously firm stance on the storyteller’s abilities.

Before the incident with the wolf and the unnatural fog, Yuri would have wasted no time in dismissing the idea that some homegrown village healer magicked the pendant. As it was, “Look, we both know some weird shit goes on around him. Did you at least have Romanov check it?”

“No. And you’re not going to mention it to anyone. Correct?” There’s steel in Viktor’s tone; this is not a request, it is an order.

Rolling his eyes, Yuri looks back to the practicing pages, “Whatever. It’s your funeral, old man.”

Footsteps pound behind them, and Yuri turns just in time to see a palace messenger skidding to a stop before Viktor and dropping into a kneel. The servant’s face is drained of color, his chest heaving to indicate how quickly he had run from his original location.

“Pardon my interruption, Your Highness, but I’ve urgent news.”

Viktor tilts his head, all traces of expressiveness gone from his face, hidden behind the cool mask of the royal family. Yuri notes that the storyteller’s pendant is also no longer in sight, only the royal seal visible against the prince’s chest.

“Speak your message.”

“Lord Petr Vasiliev arrived in the capital today and declared the crown’s refusal to mount an offense against the Atreides Empire is a failure to fulfill its duties to the people. He’s issued a challenge to the Nikiforovs' right to the throne,” the servant hesitates, then rushes on, “he threw down his glove at the queen’s feet during the public audience.”

The silence is deafening. Gone are the steady pounds of swords hitting practice dummies, of drills being rattled off in gruff shouts. Around them, Yuri knows every person within earshot is holding their breath, waiting for Viktor’s response.

Viktor’s eyes are ice as he pushes himself from where he has been leaning against the banister, tugging at the sleeves of his tunic as if straightening them for a meeting, “As the Queen’s Champion, I accept Lord Vasiliev’s challenge on her behalf. As the challenged party, it is my right to decide the date and nature of this duel,” Viktor’s voice is even, carrying easily to all listening years, “we will duel tomorrow, at sunset. Send the heralds to town with the announcement that the queen’s right to her throne will be defended at sword-point.”

“Right away, my prince,” the servant scrambles to his feet, dips into a quick bow, and rushes off the way he came.

Viktor waits for the servant to vanish from sight before glancing at his squire, “Yuri-”

“I know,” Yuri cuts him off, trying to mimic the absolute calmness of the older man even as he feels his hands begin to shake where they are clenched into fists at his sides, “you need your sword and armor checked so you don’t get yourself killed. I’ll handle it now.”

He bobs a short bow, only doing so because of the dozens of eyes still watching their every movement. No longer comfortable under the scrutiny of other’s, in the steadiness of Viktor’s reaction to a potentially disastrous situation, Yuri turns on his heel and stalks down the corridor.

Viktor is the best swordsman in the kingdom. It is only by that virtue that he holds the title of Queen’s Champion. There is no reason to believe Vasiliev, or whatever ham-handed brute the noble gets to fight in his stead, will win the duel.

Those are the facts.

Even so, Yuri finds he minds the idea of the charm hidden around Viktor’s neck less and less with each step he takes. On the off chance that the storyteller’s magic is legitimate, Viktor could do worse than to wear it into a fight.

 

* * *

 

There’s a distant rumble, the sound of hundreds of excited voices muted through heavy doors and dimmed with space. It’s a somber accompaniment to the rustle of leather being pulled into place as Yuri helps Viktor get prepared.

His squire hasn’t said a word to Viktor all day other than to acknowledge when he’s being addressed. Viktor can feel the nerves that roll off the younger man despite Yuri's best attempts to appear unconcerned. No matter how confident anyone is in Viktor's skills, it's hard to dismiss the stakes of the upcoming match.

Where Viktor has seen actual combat, he's yet to take Yuri to the borders to induct the squire into the battlefield. Judging by the steady movement of Yuri's hands, the way his eyes snap with steel, Viktor makes a mental note to rectify this immediately. Although it’s impossible to say how differently Yuri might react when it is his life on the line rather than Viktor’s, the resolve Viktor can see now is promising.

A knock sounds on the door.

Christophe stands from his seat near the entrance of the small chamber and cracks the door open before letting someone step inside. Mila claps the guard on his shoulder before turning her attention to where Viktor stands in the center of the room.

"The stands are packed. We have overflow going into the courtyard," she announces, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning against the wall.

"It's been quite a while since someone challenged the crown," Viktor replies, "it's to be expected."

In fact, the last time Viktor had to do such a duel he was barely out of his training. A power-grabbing noble thought the green Champion would be an easy win. Viktor proved the assumption wrong.

Yuri tugs a final strap tight and takes a step back, running a critical gaze over Viktor's armor to make sure nothing is out of place. The light leather armor is a far cry from the chainmail or plate armor a knight would wear into battle, only covering Viktor’s chest from harm, but it’s all that the fighters are allowed in a traditional duel like this one and a loose fit could give the enemy that much of an easier target to slip a blade into. Viktor waits for Yuri’s decisive nod before he reaches out and pulls his gloves on.

"What do you know about Lord Vasiliev's fighter?" he asks.

Mila lets out a soft sigh, "Not much. The man trained outside of Kiev and you didn't exactly give us time to dig around. We know he's good and he has nothing to lose."

"So he's dangerous," Viktor muses, "right-handed?"

"Yes," Mila hesitates before adding, "and he seems to have a temper as well."

"Good."

Viktor picks up his sheathed sword, hand wrapping around the scabbard as he turns to face his friends. The seriousness that greets him is much too heavy, and he smiles in an attempt to push away the grave mood, "Lighten up, you guys. You make me feel like I'm going to my funeral. I'm not going to lose."

It's Mila who shrugs, "The timing is suspicious, Viktor, you know that."

"And I know how to handle myself in a fight," he points out.

Another knock.

The visitor speaks through the door, "Your Highness, it's time."

There's no hesitation in Viktor's step as he makes his way to the door, letting Christophe open it for him so he can slip into the corridor. The visitor, one of the pages that have helped set up the fight, bows low to Viktor, waiting for Viktor’s party to pass before falling into step behind.

None of them speak as they make their way down the long hallway. Slowly, the roar of the crowd builds as they get closer and closer to the outdoor arena where the match will take place. Viktor is brought to a stop just before he can step into view, at his current position he can hear a herald announcing the spectators of honor, including the high priestess of Maeve and his mother.

Mila steps up beside Viktor, dropping her voice into a murmur that no one will have a chance of hearing, " My father wanted me to pass a message to you."

Raising an eyebrow, Viktor tilts his head toward her to indicate he's listening.

"Vasiliev isn't ambitious and the real intelligence in his court is his advisor, who passed earlier this year. If he is being manipulated by an outside power, delegitimizing the crown is only a small fraction of the goal."

The unspoken hint in Lord Babichev's message makes the hair at the back of Viktor's neck stand up, but he keeps his voice even as he replies, "I am thankful for my lord's council."

Mila nods and slips into the shadows, making her way to wherever she plans to watch the match. As she goes, Viktor can hear the herald announcing Lord Vasiliev and his champion. Jeers sound through the crowd.

"The Queen's Champion, Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov."

Viktor strides into the arena and the cheers of the crowd rush him like a tidal wave. He lets a charming smile tug on his lips and he nods to acknowledge the cries of support. The crowd is awash in the golden orange of the setting sun. Torches are lit around the edge of the arena for when the sunlight eventually fades.

He registers his opponent on the other side of the arena but pays the man no mind, turning to the bench set aside for his use. Extra swords sit there, in case Viktor's is damaged, and Yuri is already laying out a few supplies as well.

A hand settles on his shoulder, and Viktor smiles up at the man responsible for training the pages and squires, “I know all the rules, Yakov.”

At the comment, Yakov rolls his eyes, “I still have to go over them, highness.”

"Yuri!" Viktor waves his squire over, "you should listen too. Doesn't hurt to experience this for your training."

Yuri huffs, "Worry about yourself, I know the rules."

"Both of you, quiet." Yakov snaps, running a palm across his forehead, "Alright. This is a one-on-one sword fight. That means no additional weapons of any kind and no interference unless one of the duelists breaks a rule. This is a knight's duel, no dirty tricks, no kicks, step out of the marked area and you forfeit. Understood?"

"Perfectly," Viktor hums, "though I'm not the one you should be worried about when it comes to the rules."

"Just keep your head level and you'll be fine," Yakov mutters, turning and heading to the center of the large circle outlined with paint (the fighting area) without giving Viktor a chance to reply.

"Hey, Viktor," something in Yuri's tone tugs Viktor's attention down to make eye contact. His squire's eyes are sharp on his face, his chin set as if he's the one preparing to fight, "are you still wearing that stupid charm?"

Viktor drops his hand to his chest, despite not being able to get to the pendant due to his leather armor, "Yes. Why?"

He doesn't get a reply. Instead, Yuri holds out an impatient hand. Frowning slightly, Viktor unsheathes his sword and hands Yuri the scabbard. His squire turns on his heel and heads to the edge of the ring without another word.

A piercing whistle signals the time, and Viktor moves to the center of the ring. The wooden seats go up in rows, packed to the brim with commoners and nobles alike. Directly ahead of him, at the top of the row, sits his mother. Her back is straight, Viktor imagines it isn't even touching the seat of honor, her face expressionless as she listens to the high priestess speak. Her eyes are fixed on him, and he sweeps her a bow before turning to do the same to the priestess.

Finally, he turns to face his opponent. Viktor lazily runs his gaze past the wickedly sharp longsword held comfortably in the man's hand, past the ugly scars littered on bulging bare arms and up (several centimeters) into glittering green eyes. There's raw determination in the man's gaze. Viktor has no doubt that his opponent will not hesitate to deliver a killing blow, if given the opportunity.

"Gentlemen, shake hands."

Viktor offers his hand and pushes back a smirk at the bone-crushing handshake he receives. A novice intimidation tactic.

He waits for the brute to let go before backing up several paces and letting his sword point drop casually toward the ground. Viktor inhales slowly, centering himself, pushing away the noise of the crowd, the weight of the others’ concerns for his wellbeing.

Dimly, he's aware that Yakov is speaking words of tradition, the speech given before such a duel since before the time of the Nikiforov Dynasty. Viktor doesn't pay much attention, instead he considers the man before him. This is the third such duel Viktor has taken part of in his capacity of Queen's Champion, and he has yet to understand what drives his challengers to the point of gambling with their lives in a mad power grab. He wonders what Vasiliev could have possibly offered as a reward to put that light of conviction in the other man’s eyes.

He exhales, letting go of any lingering hesitations, of his curiosity in this other man's decisions. Such things will only hinder him from this point on.

"Guard!"

The word shoots through his concentration and Viktor sees his opponent's sword raise, sweeping backward for a powerful blow. Viktor feels his body moving, years of drills and practices making the motions so ingrained in his body that he moves almost purely on a combination of instinct and muscle memory.

He darts in close, sword coming up to feint at the man's exposed underarm. Predictably, his opponent abandons the attack in favor of twisting his sword around for a block, but Viktor has already changed targets, cutting across savagely, blade whistling against air as his opponent leaps back to avoid a slash across the throat.

Viktor pivots, having anticipated the reaction and compensating so he doesn't fall off-balance. He comes to a dead halt, sword pointed (mockingly) at the ground once more as he tosses a gleaming smile at the crowd, trying to bait the fighter.

A wary look has crossed green eyes. The giant man hesitates just long enough to catch his breath before slowly closing the gap between them, intending to take advantage of his blade's longer reach. Viktor doesn't let the plan play out, darting in close again in a burst of speed, the tip of his sword just missing where leather armor cuts off at the shoulder as the man steps to the side, a cut slicing a red line on a ruddy cheek as the crowd roars with excitement.

Twirling his blade, Viktor tilts his head, tapping a gloved finger against his lips, "I thought you were supposed to be skilled. My squire puts up more of a fight than you do."

He's greeted with a wry grin, "Your reputation precedes you. Viktor Nikiforov, a peerless sword fighter, some might even call you legendary. They say you haven't lost a fight in five years. I know when I'm outmatched."

At the admission, Viktor feels a slight prickling running up his spine, "Then why fight? Do you have a death wish?”

Chuckling, the man merely changes his grip to a two-handed hold, raising his blade again, "How about you find out yourself, highness?"

This time, it's Viktor who chooses the slow approach, eyes narrowed as he searches for a trick that he's not even sure exists. His change in tactics clearly amuses his opponent, who smirks as he watches Viktor flow into an attack.

A counterattack forces Viktor to increase speed and he pulls back before swinging his sword in a sharp crescent. His attention is elsewhere before he even hears the ear-splitting screech of his blade sliding off of the other. He whirls, bringing his sword to cut horizontally on the opposite side, forcing the man to jump back to avoid being hit.

Pressing his advantage, Viktor's sword flicks up before hurtling down.

The ring of steel on steel is almost deafening this close and Viktor bites back a grimace as his sword locks hilt-to-hilt with the other. Such situations, being brought body-to-body, are rare in a sword duel, and the advantage always falls on the larger fighter. Setting his feet, Viktor pushes against the weight of the taller man bearing down, brows furrowed in concentration.

Pain flares in Viktor’s right arm. Rapidly disengaging Viktor darts past the other fighter, pivoting on his feet so he has the distance to look down and register the dagger embedded in the muscle just below his shoulder.

The crowd is in an uproar, their noise deafening as Viktor pulls the blade from his body and tosses it over his shoulder, ignoring the trickle of blood that begins to stain his shirt red. He assesses the injury quickly. It's small, the blade had to be the same to sneak past the weapons check, as long as he doesn't draw this out he has no reason to be concerned.

What is concerning is the other man's victorious grin. It stretches from ear to ear, revealing missing teeth and murderous intent, as if this small prick is supposed to be the same as a death sentence for a fully-grown man.

Viktor shifts his grip on his sword, and feels his face drain of color when pain flares around his wound like his blood is boiling. His eyes flick back to the wound, it looks normal, but the agony in his arm doesn't match the scale of the injury.

As if in response to the burning sensation spreading from the wound in Viktor's arm, he feels heat grow on his chest. A gloved hand flies to cover where Yuuri's charm sits against his bare skin and the pieces fall into place. Someone went through a lot of trouble to have Viktor die in this practice ring, and Yuuri's foresight is working to keep Viktor alive.

He smiles slightly.

He can't let Yuuri do all the work.

Behind his opponent he can see Yakov with a bared sword in hand, clearly intending to end the fight after a breach in the rules. Catching the older man's gaze, Viktor shakes his head, halting Yakov's movements.

Slowly, Viktor changes hands, letting his right arm dangle uselessly by his side. The heat from Yuuri's charm has reached his arm, seems to be fighting the poison that sank into his bloodstream. Viktor places his confidence in Yuuri's skills and puts that fight from his mind, focusing on the one ahead. He twirls his sword once, in warning, before launching into a blistering attack.

The brute falls back immediately, eyes widened in shock, and Viktor's smile curls into a dangerous smirk. Viktor can't even hear the noise of the crowd anymore, so intent on his goal that nothing exists outside of him and his opponent. His blade cuts through the air, flowing from attack to attack like they're steps in a dance, using the momentum of the other man's blocks to push him directly into his next attack. Viktor's eyes are sharp as he moves, waiting for an opening—there it was!

Viktor comes in low, shoulder ramming into an overextended arm, sword point punching directly into the hollow of his opponent's throat.

His world comes to a stop.

This close, he can hear the strangled gasp of a man who realized just a moment too late that death was upon him. Viktor doesn't flinch as he watches the life drain from green eyes.

He doesn't step back until they flutter closed.

Viktor takes a deep breath in, letting himself savor the victory, to relish the brief moment of euphoria that comes after the adrenaline high of a life-or-death battle.

Yanking his sword from the other man's body, Viktor nimbly moves aside so the brute collapses in a pathetic heap, blade falling into the compacted dirt with a thud.

As he exhales, the noises of the rest of the world come back to him in a flood. Someone is grabbing his sword, taking it to be cleaned. Someone else lifts up his uninjured arm in victory, and he grins up at the crowd, acknowledging the near frenzy of excitement around him.

His gaze flicks up to meet his mother’s, grin widening as he notes the tiniest of smiles pulling at her lips.

Viktor isn't quite sure how he leaves the arena, how he gets through the throng of avid admirers, breezes past courtiers eager to prove they never doubted the crown for a moment. The next thing he knows he's seated in his private sitting room, his squire scowling at the open wound on his arm as Lord Romanov studies the injury.

"Where is the dagger?" the mage asks, his voice barely more than a murmur, seemingly speaking to everyone and no one at once.

It is Christophe who steps forward, the blade wrapped in thick cloth per Viktor's snapped orders the moment someone stepped close to the weapon. At the same moment, Yuri moves from his spot near the corner of the room to make quick work of bandaging Viktor’s arm. Romanov picks up the dagger and hums under his breath before turning back to Viktor, "It's spelled with a death charm. But it seems your highness already knew this."

Viktor raises an eyebrow, unwilling to acknowledge the latter half of Romanov's statement, "A death charm?"

The mage nods, dropping his gaze back to study the dagger thoughtfully, "Think of it as the same as lacing the blade with poison, only such a spell will only harm the intended target. They are incredibly rare, that was true even before magic died out."

"Why are they so rare?"

"It is difficult to kill someone with magic," Romanov's voice is distant as he turns the blade over in his fingers, sounding like he's too focused on the dagger to do more than spout off facts, "according to the lore, magic was created to counter the destructive tendencies of humankind, so causing harm is not part of its nature. The amount of power necessary to take a life directly is immense, and to contain it in such a technique, latch it onto a non-magical artifact...," Romanov shakes his head, an odd tone in his voice (was he impressed? jealous?), "it is the work of a Great Mage, that much is all I can ascertain."

He re-wraps the dagger, attention shifting so it is solely focused on the newly bandaged wound on Viktor's arm, "Which begs the question why you are still alive, Your Highness. It appears to have done you no harm."

Viktor shrugs, "If it is as difficult to manage as you claim, perhaps the spell was faulty. I trust that if there is any way to trace the spell back to its caster that you will find it."

It's effectively a dismissal, and Romanov recognizes it instantly. The mage bows his head in deference to Viktor's position, "Of course, I will begin analyzing it immediately. Congratulations on your victory, my prince."

No one says a word as Romanov makes his way out of Viktor's chambers, cradling the dagger in his hands. Viktor almost wants to call him back, demand to hold onto the blade so he can take it to Yuuri. After all, it's Yuuri's magic that kept Viktor safe, it only makes sense that Yuuri would somehow be able to answer any lingering questions about the attack.

Except, Yuuri doesn't know who Viktor is.

The easy way conversation flows between them, the flashes of sass that always shock Viktor before dissolving him into laughter, that would all vanish if Yuuri realized Viktor's status.

Word of the duel will likely spread its way to Yuuri's village, if it hasn't already. Even pretending to be a member of the prince's guard, no lie Viktor could tell about why a common guardsman was able to talk the crown prince into letting a village healer study the dagger will be convincing. Yuuri's much too intelligent to fall for such a tale.

And Yuuri continues to argue that his magic is negligible.

Even though Viktor can still feel the vestiges of it in his system, relishes in the way his entire body feels re-energized like it’s ready for another battle after Yuuri's charm fought back the magical attack, he knows Yuuri would claim he isn't powerful enough to trace the spell back to the caster.

So, Viktor lets the door slide shut behind Romanov before allowing his perfect posture to vanish. He slumps back into his seat, running a hand through his hair, "Has Vasiliev talked yet?"

The question is open-ended, seemingly addressed to the room at large, but only one person inside knows the answer, and she speaks up immediately, "No. Even if he had.…"

"I know, I know," Viktor murmurs.

Christophe scowls, "Someone tried to kill the man under my charge. I should be informed what Vasiliev says as soon as the Babichevs know."

"You'll know after Her Majesty knows and decides what information you need to do your job properly," Mila replies without pause, shrugging, "if that doesn't satisfy you, take it up with the queen."

"Enough," Viktor’s voice cuts through the impending argument between his friends.

There's too much jumbled in Viktor's brain, too many moving parts, too many potential enemies for him to listen to a petty squabble when the outcome will not change. His limited patience must be evident to everyone in the room, because Christophe and Mila stop talking without protest, leaving a tense silence to fill the space instead.

It grows rapidly. All four of the people present lost in thought, trying to unravel the implications of what has occurred, of what they just learned from Romanov.

Yuri is the one who breaks the silence, "It was his necklace, wasn't it?"

"Necklace?" That's Christophe, frowning as he flicks his gaze between squire and knight.

Viktor reaches down into the collar of his shirt and pulls at the two chains around his neck. He lets the seal of the Queen's Champion drop to his chest, holding the necklace in question out slightly as he explains, "The last time I saw Yuuri he gave it to me, he didn't say much about it, just that he had made it specifically for me."

"And you've just been wearing it without telling anyone?" Mila asks, voice torn between incredulity and resignation, "that's dangerous, Viktor."

Pressure is pushing at the sides of Viktor's temples, the sign of an impending headache. He lets the charm drop to rest against his chest. Using his uninjured arm, he rubs gently at his forehead and replies, "It saved my life. You heard Romanov, I should be dead."

She sighs, "Can you remember exactly what Yuuri said about the charm? I need it verbatim."

"Cut it out," Yuri snaps, before Viktor can draw a breath to reply (because of course he can remember the conversation verbatim, he doesn't forget a single detail about whenever he's with Yuuri), "he just fought a duel and got poisoned by magic, he needs to rest."

Viktor blinks, surprised at the verbal display of concern.

"He's such an old man he'll probably drop dead of exhaustion and I'm not about to start being a squire to a different knight when I'm almost done with my training," Yuri adds this part with even more conviction, as he crosses his arm over his chest, "interrogate him about the stupid con artist sometime when I'm not in the room, I can't stomach hearing Viktor say my name with that weird ass tone in his voice."

Frowning, Viktor asks, "What tone?"

Yuri rolls his eye and jabs a finger toward the side door that leads to Viktor's bedchamber, "At least wash the blood off, you look like a back-alley mercenary."

When Yuri decides to put an end to a conversation he does a convincing job to get all the others to drop the topic as well, and Mila and Christophe look like they have no intention of getting on the receiving end of the wonderfully foul temper that Yuri has been in ever since the duel was announced.

Giving them all a good-natured smile, Viktor pushes himself to his feet and makes his way to the privacy of his bedchamber. He can hear servants preparing a bath in the washroom and he settles into a seat at his desk, waiting for the noises to die down so he can be alone when he goes to bathe.

Viktor picks Yuuri's charm up again, letting it rest in the palm of his hand.

Yuuri saved his life.

The realization hits Viktor with the impact of a fist to the gut and he lets out slight huff of amazement. He's only alive to break up Mila and Christophe's fights, to listen to Yuri's tirades, because Yuuri had given Viktor a protection charm strong enough to combat the magic of a Great Mage.

Not for the first time, Viktor wonders how much this cost Yuuri.

Before all this, after getting back to the palace the day he visited Yuuri, after taking off the necklace so he could study it properly, the question of cost was a monetary one. Viktor could tell immediately that there was real silver on the pendant, he knew the price of such finely spun silver thread was more than a commoner could generally afford.

Viktor wondered if Yuuri sacrificed something else in order to afford the materials to make the necklace.

But now the question is heavier. It's a matter of how much magic did Yuuri pour into the pendant. Among the dozens of books Viktor has read on mages in the last weeks, he's seen mentions of certain workings costing the person who cast them. He wonders if there was some sort of payment involved that goes beyond things such as money or time.

He lets out a slight laugh. Yuuri doesn't even know who he is.

Yuuri doesn't know how valuable the protection is to Viktor. Yuuri doesn't know that Viktor's position as crown prince means certain people have a lot to gain from Viktor's death.

Yuuri isn't trying to curry favor with the royal family for a place in court or a monetary award or any of the countless things that have earned Viktor more fake friends than he can name. Even his true friends always have something to be gained, there's always some angle that Viktor has to be aware of when interacting with them. Yuuri did this for Viktor purely because he wanted to and the thought has a wide smile spreading across Viktor's face. He closes his fingers around the charm, holding it close to his heart, and murmurs two words, hoping that somehow they reach Yuuri’s ears.

"Thank you."

 

* * *

 

It’s a slower night in Minako’s tavern. A few regulars from the town sit in familiar spots at the bar and only a couple of tables have occupants. Given that it is still the middle of the week, and no trading caravans are set to come through the village for a fortnight, Yuuri hadn’t expected to be faced with an evening rush, and he’s glad to be proved right.

While he’s always happy to help Minako whenever she needs an extra hand, Yuuri prefers the relaxed atmosphere of the emptier tavern. The dough underneath his hands is simple enough to work with. Even if he hadn’t been helping manage the place since Minako had first acquired, this would not be a difficult task to manage. The repetition of movement as he pushes and pulls, feels the dough give way under his fingertips, is almost comforting. He lets himself get lost in the buzz of quiet conversations, smiling as Minako banters with a few of her regulars.

“Where’s Niko tonight?” Minako asks one costumer as she refills their tavern.

“Went East to the capital. Said somethin’ about watchin’ a couple o’ nobles hack at each other till one collapses,” is the amused response, the man chuckling as he speaks, “don’t know why he’d wanna see that. ‘S not like they’ll give the loser’s money out to whoever shouts the loudest.”

Minako laughs as well, “But how often do we get to see the nobles come out of their fancy manners and finery to do some actual work. A duel can be quite the spectacle.”

“’M good with yer ale and a nice night of sleep, miss.”

A duel in the capital.

Yuuri turns over the idea in his head as he folds the dough, wondering if Viktor is at the event himself, one of the spectators among the crowd. He files it away as something to ask about the next time the other man visits.

Wrapping the worked dough, Yuuri sets it aside and turns to his next task. A pile of vegetables sits on the counter before him, waiting to be sliced and set in a stew.

He’s cutting through the roots when a stabbing pain rips through his chest, yanking an explosive gasp out of his body without warning.

“Yuuri?”

He hears the clatter of the knife dropping against the wooden counter, but he’s too busy grabbing at his chest to pay it any mind. The pain ripples through him, shooting own through his body to pool in his gut and send shock waves up his spine.

It’s impossible to breathe.

Yuuri feels like his lungs have stopped working entirely, as if all his organs can’t function under the pressure of his body screaming out for relief. His knees hit the ground before he’s even aware he’s collapsing. 

“Yuuri! I need you to breathe. Breathe to my count, okay?”

Another gasp. The movement seems to unlock his lungs and he desperately sucks in air and lets it go again, following the steady counts that push through the haze of agony.

As he falls into the rhythm of breathing, the pain ebbs until it feels like a crackle of lightning under his skin, concentrating around his right arm. He recognizes the feeling of his magic at work and frantically shifts his attention down, shoving his glasses off his face so he can See his body alight with a golden glow. He hasn’t felt this sensation, his magic flaring up without conscious thought in response to a threat, in years. He’s always careful, is always paying attention to his surroundings so he can have control of how he reacts to threats.

Yuuri drops a hand to his uninjured arm and his eyes widen. His magic isn’t protecting him.

He feels like he’s going to be sick.

A hand wraps around his and he’s aware of Minako speaking in the distance, asking him if he can stand. Nodding numbly, Yuuri struggles to his feet and lets Minako lead him away from prying eyes into the privacy of the back room. A tankard of water is pushed into his hands and he takes a small sip.

“Yuuri, what happened? That was different from the episodes you used to have.”

He blinks, and Minako’s face swims into sight. Her brows are wrinkled, her lips pressed into a thin line, clearly worried for him.

Letting out a shaky breath, Yuuri admits, “I…, the last time Viktor visited I, uh, I gave him a charm.”

“A charm?”

“For protection. From magical attacks.”

She frowns, “Yuuri-”

Shaking his head, Yuuri stops the upcoming lecture he knows is on the tip of her tongue, needing to explain everything at once before the emotions overwhelm him and plunge him back into an anxious mess, “My magic just exploded inside of me. It has to be the charm, but it would only react like that if the attack on Viktor was significantly powerful. He’s in trouble, Minako. I have to-”

“You have to what, Yuuri?” Minako cuts across him, halting the frantic ramble Yuuri wouldn’t have been able to cut off himself, “you’re two hours ride from the capital and you don’t even know where you’d find him. There’s nothing more you can do. You poured your magic into that charm, Yuuri, you have to trust that you did it well enough to keep him safe.”

His hands are still trembling. The sheer strength of the magical backlash was terrifying. Yuuri can’t even imagine who in Kiev has the power to create such an attack, much less why they would target Viktor, of all people. Such resources seem better spent on a political figure, a member of the royal family. Maybe Viktor saw something he wasn’t supposed to? Perhaps he-

Yuuri shakes his head, stopping himself from speculating so he can focus on the present, “if I had finished my training properly I could find out if he’s okay. There are spells for this sort of thing.”

Minako sighs, “I’m sorry, Yuuri. I wish I could have helped more when you were younger.”

There’s genuine regret in the older woman’s voice, and it tugs at Yuuri’s heart. For all the things Minako’s done for him, making her feel like she somehow failed is not something Yuuri can live with. Putting his tankard of water down, he pulls her into a hug, hoping the action can convey how grateful he is to her where his words might fail.

“You kept me alive, nee-san. I can’t ask for anything more than that.”

He felt her smile before she was pulling back far enough to brush her fingers underneath the corner of Yuuri’s eye, wiping away tears he didn’t even notice he had shed, “Then why do you hold yourself to a different standard?”

Yuuri opens his mouth, and closes it when he realizes he doesn’t have a viable answer to give. Minako doesn’t seem to be expecting one because she merely shakes her head wryly and says, “You’ve done more than Viktor could have asked you for. Leave the rest up to him, okay?”

At Yuuri’s hesitate nod, Minako reaches up to ruffle his hair, “Head home. I’ll be fine handling this lot on my own.”


	7. reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri grows tired of waiting for information.

A sharp pain in his index finger yanks Yuuri from his thoughts and he swears under his breath, glancing down to where he just pricked himself with a sewing needle for the tenth time in as many minutes. He lets his current project drop to his lap so he can suck the droplets of blood welling on his skin.

He should have stopped for a break after the fifth time he missed his target and ended up stabbing himself instead. It's a miracle his stitches are even at all, given how much his hands tremble, given how he finds it impossible to focus.

For the last two days, all he has done is pick and sort herbs, not sure he could handle a larger task without drowning in the swirl of negative thoughts that continue to tumble in his mind. Determined not to become a victim to the churn in his gut and the brief moments of dizziness that comes when his worries grow too big to ignore, Yuuri told himself he could stitch a border around a cloak.

Evidently, even a task simple as that is too much.

Closing his eyes, Yuuri tries to combat the wave of nausea that washes over him. He can still remember the feeling that caused his current predicament. The sensation of his magic flaring to light without his bidding with such a ferocity that he had collapsed to his hands and knees, had been left gasping, body shaking, dread filling him at the realization that Viktor's protection charm activated. Not only did the charm come to life, attempting to ward off some magical threat, but the force of the whiplash implied that the magical threat was powerful. Powerful enough that Yuuri can't be sure Viktor is safe, isn’t confident that his power is stronger than whoever is trying to kill the other man.

Business has been slow the last few days, which only makes Yuuri's anxiety worse. Every time the door to his shop opens, he hopes that he'll look up to meet bright blue eyes. Instead, he's forced to feign ease as he helps a random customer purchase whatever ready-made item they're looking for.

Somehow, each transaction feels hollow. These customers don't care that Yuuri has worked diligently to make sure each item works correctly, aren't curious about the process that goes into mixing the herbs for his natural remedies. They simply want something to fix whatever problem they're having, and they want it quickly.

Despite how carefully Yuuri is forced to tread around Viktor, he can't help but miss the other man's curiosity. In his worst moments of doubt, Yuuri finds himself wondering if he'll ever get to speak about his craft with Viktor again.

Groaning slightly, both in frustration and at how ridiculous he's being, given he's only seen Viktor three times, Yuuri folds the cloak and puts it aside, resolving to finish it later. If he’s going to be so focused on this, he might as well start being proactive.

It's the work of minutes to clean up the rest of his materials, pull on boots and fill a small pack with emergency supplies. Before he can second-guess himself, Yuuri is hanging a 'closed' sign on the front door of his shop and setting out through the village. It's mid-morning; most of the village occupants are already working. Yuuri waves politely to the few he passes, but he's largely alone as he makes his way out of the village and to the East.

The town is situated in a valley, at the foot of the mountain pass that keeps Kiev isolated on three sides from its neighbors. Normally, this would be a risky place to settle down, Yuuri knows that other smaller villages at the base of the mountains are regularly plagued by raiders. At one point, this village was the same.

He steps over the faint golden boundary-invisible to everyone except those with an affinity for magic-that he erected just a year after moving into town. It glitters dimly in his vision, keeping the village safe from attacks of the physical variety. After the incident with the wolf, Yuuri struggled with the decision to strengthen the barrier, fashioning it to keep out magical attacks, but such a spell would be a beacon to whatever mage is in Kiev causing trouble, and Yuuri doesn't want to draw their attention any more than he already has.

Leisurely, Yuuri hikes up the gentle incline of the closest foothill. The wind twirls around him, ruffling his hair in a way that almost feels like a person’s hand is doing it instead, and Yuuri laughs slightly, batting away the leaves that fly at his face, intent on plastering against his cheeks.

Pausing in his ascent, he props his hands on his hips and tilts his head up slightly, glaring at the small cloud of leaves and petals that is the clearest visual indication of his companion, "I'm going to do a bit of climbing and I would appreciate it if your distractions didn't make me slip."

A particularly large leave flies directly at his face, covering his eyes. Laughing again, Yuuri peels it away and lets it get picked back up by the wind. Despite the obstinate response, the gusts die down when Yuuri slots his hands within a crevice in the mountainside and begins climbing.

He reaches his destination quickly, an overlook covered in grass and small wildflowers. The incline steepens drastically from there, almost vertical at his back when he plops down into a seat. From here, he can almost see the entire valley. The thin snake that winds through green fields indicates the main road that connects his small corner of home to the rest of the kingdom, it’s the only indication that this village is not completely cut off from the rest of mankind.

Yuuri lets his pack drop to sit next to him and gently places his glasses on top of the pack. His hands fall to places on either knee and he takes a measured inhale, basking in the serenity of nature around him.

He lets the breath go, his eyes flutter shut, and he dives into his mind.

_It’s dark, a stark contrast to the bright and mild day he left behind in the physical realm. Yuuri turns in a circle on the spot, taking in everything in sight, trying to determine where to go, not quite sure where he is relative to his end goal. It’s odd being a stranger in his own consciousness_

_Yuuri hates it here._

_He hasn’t spent time in his dreamscape since being forced here several weeks ago. It’s every bit as bleak and desolate as he remembers. Everything is in muted shades of black and gray, a visual indication of something he’s known for years: his mind is broken._

_This is his last-ditch attempt to determine if his magic successfully protected Viktor from harm. Short of riding to the capital and demanding to speak to the prince’s guard in hopes of running across the other man, Yuuri is completely out of options. The fact that he's turned to the one place he has tried to avoid at all costs for more than half of his life, that he's relying on a method that is difficult to interpret in the best of circumstances, speaks to how important finding the truth is to him, even if he doesn't want to dwell on the 'why'._

_The trees around him are so frail, so near complete destruction, that it’s easy to see in the distance. Through the bare branches he can pick out the clearing that is his destination. Forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other, Yuuri weaves through the decaying forest, flinching each time a twig snaps underfoot, hands trembling each time he has to make detours around blocks caused by collapsed trees._

_The clearing is nothing like the green haven Yuuri visits on trips into the forest. The grass is a sickly shade of yellow, bare patches reveal dirt every several steps. Barbed weeds outnumber the few flowers that have stubbornly held on, surrounding them in an attempt to choke the remaining life away from what used to be a spiral garden._

_At the epicenter of the clearing is a raised stone garden bed, the lower two tiers of which are full of dirt and weeds. The top tier holds a maple bonsai, branches haphazardly overextended toward the top, weight off-balance and causing it to look tilted to one side. Its leaves are sparse, and it’s only the nature of its purpose here that it has grown any at all while everything around it died. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Yuuri steps into the indent designed for him to be able to reach the bonsai, reaching out to place a gentle hand against the trunk._

_It looks so much smaller than he remembers, even with its overgrowth; it’s a testament to how small Yuuri himself was the last time he paid the tree any mind._

_His body aches, muscles remembering the hours and hours he used to spend carefully pruning and shaping the tree, moving slowly as he tried to remember his mother’s specific instructions. He’d been barely old enough to handle shears in the physical plane when he was set to the task of cultivating the tree, devoting all the focus of a child’s attention span that he could into the receptacle that is meant to be his magical center, a technique passed down through the Katsuki line for as long as there has been magic. It is supposed to be a give and take, his care for the tree given in exchange for the tree’s steadiness. All Yuuri has done is ignore it since his family died, he can’t even bear the thought of how disappointed his mother would be at the sight._

_“I’m sorry,”  he murmurs._

_A slight pulse of heat under his touch pulls a strangled sob from his throat. He doesn’t deserve this kindness._

_He doesn’t even deserve his magic._

_Impatiently wiping tears from his cheeks, he adds, “I promise I’ll get you back in shape, but I need your help first.”_

_The branches flutter in the still air and Yuuri slowly runs his palm down to rest in the roots of the tree. His mind tumbles with the same anxious thoughts that have plagued him all week, now compounded by the confrontation of his failure as a Katsuki mage, and he tries to push past them and concentrate on his goal._

_If Viktor is alive, the magic that remains in his pendant should still be just active enough for Yuuri to find a thread of information. It’s risky. If the mage trying to kill the other man is searching for the reason why his attack failed, Yuuri could send up a signal flare, essentially challenging the mage to come find him. It’s a balancing act: waiting long enough that the other mage will have moved on to a different project, but not long enough that the thread is dormant again._

_Silver hair and blue eyes float to the forefront of his mind. But the hair is too long, pulled up into a horsetail and still brushing the boy’s back. The eyes are too young, full of an innocence that Yuuri has never seen before. The person in his mind can’t be any older than ten._

_Shaking his head to clear it, Yuuri tries again, sending his intention into the roots of the tree: he wants to see Viktor._

_Lighthearted laughter rings in his ear, too high-pitched for the man that Yuuri knows, but somehow achingly familiar. A responding chuckle and a name come next, as clear as if someone stands right beside him: Vitya._

_Yuuri yanks his hand away from the tree, tumbling backward in his haste and ending up sprawled on the harsh grass._

_Who is Vitya?_

 

"Yuuri!"

 

_The name echoes in a dim corner of his mind, from the time when this garden was still green, when his family was still alive. Why is he remembering it now?_

“Yuuri!”

 

Yuuri’s eyes fly open and the sudden brightness leaves him momentarily blinded. Blinking rapidly, he turns his head toward where someone is calling his name. Blue lights glow around a form standing a dozen feet below his outcrop, interlaced with the faint golden strains that represent Yuuri’s magic, and he scrambles to pick up his glasses.

Blue light fades away, revealing eyes nearly the same hue and a wide smile.

And Viktor’s smile is so warm and genuine and infectious that it pushes away the vestiges of gloominess that threatened to hang around Yuuri for the rest of the day. There’s little point in brooding over the odd name and images he had seen when Viktor is standing right before Yuuri’s eyes, looking every bit as healthy as he had the last time he visited. Feeling an answering grin tugging on his lips, Yuuri waves back at Viktor.

“Can I come up?”

Yuuri shakes his head, uncrossing his feet, “There’s not space here. I’ll come down to you!”

He picks up his bag and pushes himself up so he’s standing, one hand flying out to support him when he wobbles on legs gone numb.

“Are you okay?” Viktor calls.

At the question, Yuuri snorts to himself. That’s what he ought to be asking Viktor, but a sharp sweep of the other man indicates that he's perfectly healthy. Nothing shows on Viktor's face beside happiness, there’s nothing to indicate that Viktor knows he was the target of another attack. Nothing to justify Yuuri throwing the question back with any thread of seriousness. So, he plays his part, waving a hand down at the other man to indicate he’s fine.

After taking a few ginger steps to make sure he won’t collapse, Yuuri begins making his way down. His eyes flick between watching his footing and making sure that he’s not hallucinating that Viktor is actually here. When he draws level with Viktor, he goes to stop just within touching distance and bites back a slight yelp of surprise when he’s tugged into a hug.

Blinking slightly at the sudden display of affection, Yuuri wraps his arms around Viktor’s torso instinctively, surprised at how familiar the action feels. It's over too quickly, Viktor's grip loosening so he can pull back and meet Yuuri’s gaze. Viktor doesn’t make any move to put distance between them, merely smiling down at Yuuri, “I was beginning to think you had fallen asleep up there.”

Blushing, Yuuri steps back, putting a more appropriate bit of space between them, “Just meditating.”

“Meditating?” Viktor repeats, grin widening, “I don't know why you keep insisting that you're not a real mage when you're doing things like this all the time. Did I interrupt?”

Yuuri shook his head, “No, I was done.”

There's certainly little point in continuing his search now when he has proof of Viktor being alive as plain as day.

His eyes flick over Viktor’s shoulder, looking for a horse or some indication of how he arrived. There's nothing, which surprises Yuuri considering how protective Viktor's friends had seemed of him, “Alone again today?”

“Trying to get me alone?” Viktor counters, raising an eyebrow. Yuuri’s cheeks are burning but he doesn’t have time to correct any kind of misunderstanding because Viktor merely chuckles and continues, “no. Chris and the horses stayed at Minako’s. I think he likes talking to her more than he likes hanging out with me. Though if he swings by your shop and finds us both gone he might die of heartbreak.”

Yuuri’s only heard stories about Viktor and Christophe’s friendship, has seen them interact just a few times, but he's confident that their flair for dramatics are only rivaled by the other, and he merely smiles and starts heading back toward the village, “we should hurry back then, I don’t have a cure for heartbreak.”

“Wait,” Viktor catches Yuuri’s wrist as he moves past, halting the younger man in his steps, “before we go, I wanted to give you something.”

Frowning, Yuuri turns so he’s facing Viktor, not sure what to make of the guarded look in blue eyes or the suddenly serious tone in Viktor’s voice, “You can give it to me at my shop?”

It comes out as a question because Viktor’s call to wait seems to indicate that this can’t happen at Yuuri’s shop, but Yuuri can’t fathom why.

Viktor shakes his head but doesn’t seem inclined to explain. He merely drops Yuuri’s wrist and shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a silver coin. It’s the same shade as the silvers that Viktor offered him the first time they met, but it’s the wrong size, as big as a gold piece. Writing is etched around the edges of the circle in a language that Yuuri can’t read.

“You thanked me last time for saving you from that wolf, but if you hadn’t warned me I never would have had the chance to defend myself,” Viktor explains, “so, thank you.”

He offers it to Yuuri, and Yuuri shakes his head, “I didn’t do anything.”

“It’s rude to refuse a gift,” Viktor hums, pressing out the coin further, “it’s not really worth much, if you’re worried about the cost, but if you're ever in trouble you can show this to any Kievan soldier and they'll get you help."

Slowly, Yuuri reaches out and accepts the coin, brows furrowed as he tries to make sense of the power evidently intrinsic within the small token. It's disproportionate for the occasion. Even if Viktor does honestly believe Yuuri saved his life that day (and from what Yuuri's seen of Viktor in a fight, the other man would have handled himself just fine without Yuuri's little warning), this type of token is what royal messengers or high valued vassals receive-directly from the crown-not a gift to a small village healer from a palace guard.

He glances from the coin to meet Viktor's gaze, searching for answers that he clearly won't receive if he asks. There's nothing but determination in blue eyes, brokering no room for argument but giving no indication what spurned this on.

Turning the coin over in his hand, Yuuri considers the gesture from a different point of view. The magnitude of this gift makes more sense if Viktor knows what happened with the charm and is offering the coin as a thank you for saving him two days prior; offering Yuuri protection from attacks of the physical kind in exchange for the protection he received from magical attacks. But it still doesn't explain how Viktor would have gotten such a token in the first place, much less why Viktor wouldn't just come out and ask Yuuri about the incident if this was the case.

Yuuri has always been hyperaware of the lies he tells Viktor. Internally wincing every time one has to drop from his lips, hating the way Viktor never seems to doubt his word. This is the first time he wonders if his falsehoods are being matched in turn.

It dampens the light mood Viktor's arrival brought.

Pocketing the coin, he shoves the thoughts aside for consideration another time. Smiling softly, he says, "Thanks, Viktor."

The harsh edge vanishes from Viktor's face when Yuuri concedes, and the glittering smile comes back as Viktor sets off toward the village, Yuuri immediately falling into step, "Have you been busy?"

Yuuri shakes his head, "Just a few projects here and there, and helping Minako sometimes." At the mention of Minako, he remembers a conversation he overheard in the tavern, "some of the others mentioned there was a big duel in the capital. Did you see it?"

Viktor wrinkles his nose in distaste, "I don't understand the point of duels. There's enough violence and bloodshed in our world already, there's no reason for people to kill each other over petty political disputes."

"It was a duel to the death?" Yuuri repeats, shocked. That information had not made its way to Yuuri's shop.

"A lord challenged the queen. Those disputes are always to the death," Viktor murmurs, before glancing at Yuuri curiously. "Did they not have duels where you grew up?"

"I didn't live near any nobles. If they did, news didn't travel as far as the village," Yuuri says, mind racing with the implications of Viktor’s information. The only reason he’s been able to stay in Kiev for as long as he has is the unprecedented stability of the current queen’s reign. “I assume the Champion came out on top?”

Viktor raises an eyebrow, “So you don’t know that they duel to the death but you do know about the position of the Queen’s Champion?” Yuuri merely blinks up at him, eyes wide and innocent and intent on giving nothing away, and Viktor chuckles, “yes, they did.”

By now they’ve made their way back into the village, and a sharp call of “Young man!” pulls them from their conversation.

Glancing in the direction of the call, Yuuri gives a polite smile to Nishigori’s mother, pausing in his walk so that she can draw even with him. Up close, he can tell she looks annoyed as if she’s been extremely inconvenienced, “I’ve been running in circles looking for you.”

Eyes widening slightly at the rude tone, Yuuri replies, “Is there something I can help you with?”

“One of the triplets—I can’t tell them apart—has been coughing all day. I told my daughter-in-law that nothing so little as a cough will keep a Nishigori down for long, but she’s insistent that you come to look. Immediately,” the last word is said with a sharp glance at Viktor, who’s watching the exchange with interest.

Biting back a sigh at the woman’s attitude, Yuuri shifts so he’s facing Viktor, “This shouldn’t take too long, you could wait at my shop.”

“Can I come with you?” Viktor asks without pause, “I’ll stay out of the way.”

There’s really no decision for Yuuri to make, not when Viktor’s looking so excited at the prospect of seeing Yuuri at work. He flashes a smile at Viktor before refocusing on the Nishigori matriarch, “Alright, we can go to Yuuko and the babies now.”

A sniff is Yuuri’s response, a clear indication of her disapproval of Viktor’s presence. Rolling his eyes, Yuuri follows behind, and a soft laugh sounds behind him. He shoots Viktor a curious look, but the other man merely shakes his head, biting back a bemused grin as he falls into step.

When they enter the bakery, Nishigori is dealing with a pair of customers but he waves at Yuuri as the trio makes their way up the stairs toward the side wall.

“I brought your midwife, Yuuko,” the old woman calls. “I’m sure it’ll be a waste of our time.”

Yuuko is pacing back and forth in the bedroom, one of the triplets cradled in her arms. She whirls to face the entrance and she sends a fond look at her mother-in-law, “Thank you, mama. Even if it turns out to be nothing, these are my only kids so I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

The child in her arms lets out a weak cough and Yuuri is moving across the room before anyone can say another word. He brushes wispy brown hair from the child’s forehead and drops his head to press his lips to skin, checking the child’s temperature. Humming thoughtfully, he dangles a finger in front of her hand and only waits a second before the child grips it, giggling when he waves their combined hands back and forth before breaking into another cough.

Green thread is tied around her wrist, a gift Yuuri had given all three children after delivering them. The small chain bracelets are laced with various charms for health and safety, so the chances of them catching something life-threatening are slim (of course he can’t blame Yuuko for not knowing this little fact).

Straightening, Yuuri gives his friend a reassuring smile, “It’s a slight cold, no fever. It hasn’t made its way into her chest, and I highly doubt it will. If she gets some sleep tonight she’ll be good as new in the morning,” he slips his finger from her grip, adding, “I can mix a paste that will help with her coughs so she’s not waking up all night.”

Yuuko lets out a sigh of relief, “I’ll have Takeshi visit when he closes for prep tonight. How much?”

Shaking his head, Yuuri says, “Don’t worry about it.”

She lets out a soft laugh, “You’re too nice to us, Yuuri.” Concern for her child now slightly abated, Yuuko’s eyes flick to Viktor and seem to sharpen as she studies him, “this must be Viktor?”

Viktor looks surprised at being addressed by name, but he recovers quickly, stepping forward and holding out his hand, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mrs. Nishigori.”

Sticking out her hand for a handshake, Yuuko says “Please, you can just call me Yuuko.”

Viktor grasps Yuuko’s hand and smoothly shifts his grip so he can bring it to his lips, dropping a light kiss to it before saying, “It’s lovely to meet you, Yuuko.”

There’s not a response.

Frowning in confusion, Yuuri glances up at his friend’s face, wondering why she’s fallen silent. He’s greeted with two flushed cheeks and wide brown eyes as Yuuko stares down at Viktor’s charming smile like she’s seeing a ghost.

He nudges Yuuko and the action puts her out of her stupor, “Nice to meet you too. Yuuri’s told me a lot about you but he never mentioned you were a noble.” The last bit is directed at Yuuri, a glint in her eyes that says she’ll be grilling Yuuri all about Viktor later.

Rolling his eyes, Yuuri replies, “The nobility aren’t the only people who have nice manners.”

Viktor’s straightened at this point, letting go of Yuuko’s hand, “I spend most of my time around the nobility, so I pick up a few things here and there.” He brings a finger to his lips, frowning in thought as he adds, “though I don’t think it’s fair that Yuuri’s told you about me but he hasn’t told me anything about you. Here I was concerned that he was the village crone.”

An impish smile is curling onto Yuuko’s lips, tugging an answering feeling of dread in Yuuri’s gut, “Close enough. Yuuri’s friendly with everyone but I think this room just about holds every friend he’s made here since I met him. What’s worse is I can’t seem to get him married off for the-”

“Okay!” Yuuri butts in, ears flaming in embarrassment. He grabs Viktor’s wrist and begins pulling the other man toward the stairs, “have Nishigori swing by in a couple of hours for the paste. I’ll see you later, Yuuko.”

Yuuko’s laughter follows them down the stairs. Yuuri can’t even bring himself to look at Viktor until the Nishigori’s bakery is well behind them, but when he does, he’s not greeted with the bemused smile he’s expecting. Viktor isn’t even looking at Yuuri; his eyes are focused on where Yuuri’s fingers are still wrapped around his wrist, the expression on his face unreadable.

Belatedly, Yuuri drops his hand and glances away, trying to will away his resurfacing blush, “Sorry about Yuuko.”

“She’s fun,” Viktor replies, “I’m glad I got to meet her. It’s only fair since you met all my friends at once. Just Yurio alone is a lot to handle.”

Yuuri nods, conceding the point.

“You call her husband by their surname?”

It’s an odd thing for Viktor to notice, much less question, but Yuuri’s used to Viktor asking questions about just about everything Yuuri does, “Yes.”

“Why?” Viktor’s tone is still as light-hearted as it had been at the bakery, but when Yuuri glances at Viktor, he recognizes a glimmer of intrigue in blue eyes; something about this question has meaning to Viktor, and Yuuri can’t figure out what it is.

“Habit, I suppose,” Yuuri answers slowly, trying to unravel the purpose behind this line of questioning while speaking, “we all were born in Yamatai before it was conquered. Back home, people were introduced by their surname.”

“Is Yuuri your surname?”

His heartbeat picks up in pace, pounding against his chest as Yuuri looks away from Viktor, staring into the distance as he silently begs Viktor to stop this thread of conversation, “No.”

“There you two are!” Yuuri doesn’t think he’s ever been so grateful to hear someone’s voice as he is to hear Christophe as they round the bend that brings them right in front of his shop. Christophe is leaning next to the door, leads for two horses in hand, “I was starting to think you locked me out for fun.”

“Yuuri got called away to help the baker’s wife,” Viktor explains, “I wanted to watch.”

Christophe grins, “Of course you did. I hate to interrupt your bonding, but it’s time for us to head back before we’re out of jobs ourselves.” He hands off the reins to one of the horses to Viktor, glancing between the two of them before adding, “don’t take forever, Viktor.”

He gives Yuuri a friendly nod before leading his horse a few steps away and mounting, giving Yuuri and Viktor an amount of privacy that Yuuri’s not sure they need.

When he glances back at Viktor, he’s met with a rueful smile, “I wish I could say when I’ll be able to visit next, but it’s hard to tell.”

It’s understandable, even if it’s disappointing. Viktor can’t very well just leave his job in the Prince’s Guard whenever he gets the urge to say hi, and it’s not like Yuuri lives in the capital or is a quick ride away. It’s not like Yuuri’s ever volunteered to make the reverse trip.

“I know. Take care of yourself until then,” Yuuri says.

Instead of replying right away, Viktor picks up Yuuri’s hand, and brings it up to meet his lips as a teasing wink is tossed Yuuri’s way. It’s so similar to what Viktor did to Yuuko, but Yuuri swears Viktor’s lips linger longer, he bends just slightly lower, his breath warming the back of Yuuri’s hand as he says, “I feel like a knight riding off to war.”

Yuuri’s cheeks are burning as he stutters out, “You seem to attract trouble.”

At that, Viktor laughs, letting go of Yuuri’s hand and turning, swinging himself into the saddle of his horse, “I’ll stay safe, Yuuri, as long as you promise to do the same.”

The sheer idea of Yuuri, in his backwater village, needing to keep out of trouble just as much as a man who's been the target of two magical attacks in the span of a month is laughable. It shouldn’t be. With Yuuri’s history their positions should be switched, but of course Viktor doesn’t know any of this, can’t appreciate the irony. So, Yuuri merely nods, smiling as he says, “Sounds like a deal.”

Viktor wheels his horse around and kicks it into a trot, waving goodbye. Yuuri watches him go, waving back until Viktor shifts his attention forward so he can ride abreast with Christophe.

Still smiling at the other man’s antics, Yuuri doesn’t even notice a pair of hooded and cloaked strangers that make their way past Viktor and directly towards Yuuri’s shop until they’re directly in front of him. Yuuri’s smile falters at their sudden (and odd) appearance, “Sorry, but I’m closed for the day.”

“Not even a cup of tea for weary travelers?”

The reply is low, barely more than a murmur; the voice fading in familiarity after so many years apart, but the sentence isn’t even finished before Yuuri’s smile is back in full force. He pulls the key to his shop from his bag and turns to open the door, ushering the pair in and glancing around, checking for watchers, before closing and locking his shop back up.

By the time he’s turned around, hoods are hanging down at the traveler’s backs and Yuuri’s attention zeroes in on a beaming grin and two sparkling brown eyes. A mixture of smugness and excitement is plastered all over Phichit’s face as he says, “Surprise!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri's tree is a Japanese Maple (Acer palmatum) bonsai. [A healthy tree can grow leaves in various colors, including yellow, orange, or bright red.](http://www.bonsaitreegardener.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/japanese-maple-bonsai-tree-716x1024@2x.jpg)
> 
> Also I have been _dying_ to get Phichit in here. Bless.


	8. old friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri and Phichit catch up on lost time.

Yuuri laughs and lets his friend pull him into an excited hug, squeezing gently in hello, slightly in shock that Phichit just appeared out of thin air like this, “I didn’t even know you were traveling!”

Phichit pulls back just far enough to study Yuuri’s face and, as he does every time they see each other, pokes one of Yuuri’s cheeks, “You’re so thin, Yuuri! Haven’t you been eating? I can send you some money.”

“I’m fine, Phichit,” Yuuri says, “I have plenty to eat between what I make at the shop and when I go to the festivals.”

“Are you sure? My family has more money than they know what to do with.”

Yuuri chuckles slightly, finally stepping back so he can converse with Phichit without tilting his head at an odd angle, “I think that’s true for all royalty. Speaking of which, the last time you came out here to see me you hadn’t been properly introduced to court yet. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

A hand is lazily waved through the air, “My parents sent me to Kiev. I’m here on a goodwill trip as a sign that our treaty is still strong.”

At that, Yuuri’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline, “You’re here on a diplomatic trip? And you’re visiting me before you see the queen?”

“Technically, Prince Chulanont is still making his way inland from the docks. There’s a giant caravan full of goods for trade and gifts for the royal family that will take at least two more days to finish the trip. Besides, how could I come all the way to this kingdom of ice and not see you first?”

Sighing, Yuuri runs his hand through his hair—his friend has always been cavalier about his status. “Do your parents know you made a pit stop in my village?”

Phichit laughs, “You have such little faith in me, Yuuri. Of course my parents know where I am. They said to tell you hi, and to give you this.” He pulls a sealed letter from inside the small travel pack slung across his body and presents it with a flourish, “your regular invitation to move in with us at the palace.”

“Ah, thanks,” Yuuri says, taking the envelope with a slight air of reluctance, “I appreciate it, but-”

“But you can’t possibly impose any more on their hospitality and you like it here in Kiev, blah, blah, blah,” Phichit cuts him off, raising an eyebrow, “you’ve said the same thing for the last five years, Yuuri. You can’t hide here forever.”

“I’m not hiding,” Yuuri protests, “I like being normal, for once.”

“Right,” Phichit draws out the word, making it clear that he doesn't believe Yuuri, before completely dropping the topic. An impish grin spreads across his face and he gives Yuuri a gentle shove, “but my feelings are hurt, Yuuri. You’ve been writing me letters and you haven’t mentioned a word about knowing Prince Nikiforov.”

Yuuri frowns, "Who?"

"Crown Prince Nikiforov?" Phichit repeats breezily, like the larger title is supposed to do anything besides confuse Yuuri more. Phichit's teasing mood vanishes as he recognizes the frown on Yuuri's face; his own brows draw together and he slows down, as if unsure whether his next words should be coming out of his mouth, “you…you just waved goodbye to him? He was riding a horse.”

“That was Viktor,” Yuuri says, “he’s a guard for the crown prince.”

“Holy shit, Yuuri.” Phichit turns, studying the shop for a moment before gently taking Yuuri’s hand and pulling him through the back door into the living quarters, maneuvering Yuuri to a seat at the small table that doubles as a dining and a working space, “Ciao Ciao, can you make some tea?”

The other traveler who arrived with Phichit had long since pulled off his hood, content to stand to the side as the two friends caught up. He speaks for the first time, his tone slightly hushed, echoing the worry in Phichit's voice, “Of course.”

Frowning, Yuuri flicks his gaze between the two, “It’s just a mistake, Phichit, you simply confused him for someone else.”

Phichit purses his lips, face solemn as he considers the mulish look on Yuuri's face—evidence that Yuuri won't be changing his stance easily. The two friends stare at each other, an odd mood filling the silence between them.

Suddenly, Phichit's thoughtful expression vanishes, melting underneath his normal cheery grin, “Well, you haven’t mentioned a word about this mysterious guard either. When did you meet him?”

The abrupt change in topic doesn’t help Yuuri’s spinning head, but he rolls with it (as he learned to do a long time ago whenever Phichit is involved), “It's been a little less than two months, we met at the Midsummer’s Festival. He...,” Yuuri trails off slightly before admitting, “he tried to give me gold pieces for my story and I told him it was too much money.”

In his defense, Yuuri _had_ thought the amount of money was odd, but there’s plenty of merchants and lesser nobles that can afford to give a couple golds to a street performer. Two gold pieces, readily offered, doesn't mean Viktor is the Kievan prince.

“Do you get to see him often?” Phichit asks, leaning forward eagerly as if the mention of the gold is entirely inconsequential to him.

“Uh, no? He can’t leave his post easily so he’s only visited three times since we met.”

Phichit lets out an exasperated sigh, “My best friend in the entire world, the person who knows me better than anyone else alive, didn’t even think to mention he was seeing a gorgeous capital guard? My heart is broken, Yuuri, shattered. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover.”

A snort of laughter leaves Yuuri’s mouth despite himself and he gently nudges one of Phichit’s legs under the table, “The last time I wrote you was the day after we met, Phichit. If you wrote me back instead of trying to surprise me, I might have mentioned him. Besides, a lot has been going on.”

Tea is set in front of them, made exactly the way Yuuri likes it, and he smiles up at the man who had (at one point) been his tutor along with Phichit’s, "Thanks, Celestino."

Phichit waits until Yuuri takes his first sip of tea before he tilts his head to one side, mouth wide open in exaggerated disbelief, "You mean things actually happen in this backwater village?"

Rolling his eyes, Yuuri says, "This village is my home, Phichit. Some of us don't need more excitement in our lives."

"Spill, Yuuri."

“Well, the first time Viktor came to visit he was attacked by a conjured wolf. He killed it but when I went to study the wolf’s magical signature, the malice of the entire spell knocked me out."

The freedom of being able to tell Phichit everything without resorting to lies—as he does when he talks to Viktor—or without brushing past important details to prevent Phichit from worrying—as he does when talking to Minako makes the words flow from Yuuri's lips with ease. It makes him feel so much younger: the warm tea in his hands, the steady presence of Celestino off to the side, the knowledge that Phichit will take in everything without interrupting, without judging, and support Yuuri without coddling him, reminds Yuuri of his life in the Ayutthayan palace. It reminds Yuuri of the eight years he spent in protected by the Chulanont family—where he had been given the time and space to heal from the loss of his family while forging bonds with a new one.

"And then the second time he visited I gave him a protection charm to keep him safe from magical attacks. It was really nice to see him today because I've been worried sick ever since I felt the charm activate a couple of days ago; he actually gave me this coin today which-” Yuuri cuts off, feeling his stomach sink as he rattles off the incidents. Laying them out, one after the other, makes the whole affair seem more suspicious than he ever thought it was.

He glances at Phichit, who is watching him carefully, and asks, “You wouldn’t happen to know who the Queen’s Champion of Kiev is?”

Phichit shakes his head and glances over his shoulder, “Do you know, Ciao Ciao?”

“It’s the crown prince. He’s one of the finest swordsmen this kingdom has ever produced.” Celestino pauses, thinking over something before he adds, "I actually don't know if he's ever been defeated in so much as an exhibition match since earning the title, nine years ago."

“Why do you ask?” Phichit presses, his eyes sharpening on Yuuri's face.

It's been years since Yuuri and Phichit were last in the same room together—their communication has been limited to letters sent back and forth through clandestine carriers—and Yuuri had forgotten why Phichit was sent on diplomatic trips rather than his older sister. Phichit is a born politician, and he's always had the eerie ability to convince Yuuri of something without doing much talking at all. Yuuri should have known Phichit was up to something the moment he drastically changed the tone of the conversation. He should have known better to believe Phichit would just drop the idea of Viktor being the prince.

“Viktor’s charm activated the same day the Queen’s Champion was fighting a duel,” the words feel heavy as they leave Yuuri’s mouth, and he drops his head in his hands, “what’s the prince’s name, Phichit?”

He hears his friend sigh, but the answer comes quickly, “Viktor. Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov.”

The past weeks make so much more sense. All Yuuri’s questions get answered in one fell swoop: why someone would be targeting Viktor so viciously, why Viktor never comes to town on his own, why Viktor is always asking questions rather than answering them. And if Viktor is the crown prince of Kiev, what does that make Yurio? Christophe? Mila?

Where does that leave Yuuri?

“Yuuri, I know this is a lot to process, but this is an important question,” Phichit speaks up after the silence has stretched past the point of being uncomfortable, “how much does he know?”

“Not much. I told him I was from Yamatai today, but I haven’t confirmed anything else. He’s always calling me a mage though, doesn't even seem fazed when I tell him I’m not a real magic user,” Yuuri’s head flies back up and he meets Phichit’s gaze, “I’m going to have to leave, aren’t I? If he figures out who I am then I can't stay here. What if he’s only been visiting because he wants my magic?”

Phichit and Celestino exchange glances before Celestino says, “If he knew who you are, it’s doubtful that he would be taking such a gentle approach. Even if the queen isn't interested in replacing her court mage with you, she can’t very well let someone with your powers live in her borders without some kind of insurance.”

"But I gave him that protection charm, and-oh, no. It must have activated at the duel. Phichit, there were hundreds of people watching! Not to mention the royal mage, what if he-"

"Yuuri, stop it," Phichit cuts off Yuuri's tirade before Yuuri can work himself into a panic. Slipping out of his chair and moving around the table Phichit kneels in front of his friend, "you're fine. No one outside this room knows who you are beside Minako and my family."

Gently, Phichit pries Yuuri's hands apart from where they had clenched together in his lap. Phichit runs his fingers along Yuuri's palm and dull purple light sparkles in the corner of Yuuri's eye, accompanied with the cooling sensation of healing magic, making the red indents of his nails digging into his palms vanish before their eyes. As he works, Phichit says, "your mother was Katsuki Hiroko, a direct descendant of the First Mage. She was the Magic Keeper: who could try mages for their crimes and bring justice to those who fell victim to malicious magic users. Her last act on this plane was to protect you, Katsuki Yuuri, and I know you're completely aware that such a spell is too powerful for a little spurt of protective magic to break. You're fine, Yuuri, we can fix this together."

Yuuri tries to take a deep breath, tries to clear his head, but instead it ends up coming out in a shuddering gasp—his lungs feel like they're compressing in, his head is ready to burst. It's too much at once. He's still feeling shaky from the backlash of Viktor's charm activating, still feeling fatigued from the days of worrying for Viktor's safety, he barely even had two hours of feeling like things were back under control and the shock is too much.

It's impossible for him to wrap his head around, and Yuuri laces his fingers through Phichit's, needing the touch to keep him anchored so he doesn't descend into a panic. His friend, thankfully, doesn't say a word.

Phichit glances to the side, and lightly says, "Ciao Ciao, my parents sent a letter for Minako too. Would you mind running it to her? I'm not sure if we'll have time to visit with her before her evening rush like we planned."

They all know this is just Phichit trying to get Celestino to leave him and Yuuri alone, but Celestino merely nods. Yuuri lets go of one of Phichit's hands long enough to let the younger man pull out the letter from his bag and hand it to his tutor.

When the door to Yuuri's shop closes behind Celestino, Yuuri mumbles, "I really liked spending time with him."

"It's a little early for you to switch to past tense," Phichit teases, "this could be a fairytale ending! The dashing prince stumbles upon the adorable mage, both of them conceal their identities and fall in love, they confess to each other when the guilt gets too big to bear and then get married and live happily ever after!"

Phichit's voice rises and dips dramatically in an exuberant telling of the scenario, pulling a weak laugh from Yuuri.

"I'm pretty sure that's the plot of one of those children's books you always begged Minako to read to us when we were children," Yuuri points out.

His friend shrugs, "Minako's voices were better than the ones anyone else could come up with. It makes sense since she used to be a traveling player. Besides, the way you two met is like the stories, why can't the ending be the same?"

"Because the people who killed my family are still out there, and they want me dead," Yuuri's voice is dry as he responds.

"And someone is evidently trying to kill Viktor," Phichit counters, "he wouldn't even be alive right now if you two hadn't met. Celestino said he's a great fighter, and he is the crown prince. If you won't let my family protect you, maybe you can do some sort of exchange of services with Viktor. He’d probably be thrilled to replace the royal mage with you."

Yuuri can't even tell if Phichit is being genuine or if he's simply trying to calm Yuuri down at this point, "Phichit, my only option right now is to leave."

"Where are you going to go, Yuuri?"

The question stuns Yuuri into silence, and he blinks down at Phichit. With a sigh, Phichit gets to his feet and gently pulls his hands from Yuuri's grip, pouring them both some more tea as he says, "You refuse to come back to Ayutthaya with me, and every other kingdom has been conquered by the Atreides Empire. There's nowhere else for you to hide."

"Kiev is a big place. I could move South."

Phichit snorts, "Hide from the Nikiforovs in their own borders? That's not possible."

"I...I could-" Yuuri falls silent, at a loss. Phichit is right: his only options are to stay in Kiev or go back to Ayutthaya, "I could tell Viktor I don't want to see him anymore."

It's a horrible suggestion. Yuuri doesn't even know if he'd have the courage to say something like that to Viktor's face; he's a practiced liar but Yuuri's not positive he'd be able to convince Viktor that he never wants to see the other man again when it's the furthest thing from the truth.

There's a soft sigh from the other side of the table as Phichit drops back into his seat. Brown eyes study Yuuri's face before scanning the room, taking in Yuuri's home anew, picking out the things that have changed since the last time Phichit was able to visit three years prior. When Phichit meets Yuuri's gaze again, the solemnity is gone, replaced with an easygoing smile, "I forgot to mention what my sister said—she'll kill me if I don't give you her message—Kannika has decided that she doesn't care how much you hate court, you have to come attend her wedding."

It's a diversion, not even disguised with Phichit's usual finesse, but Yuuri can't help taking the bait because he blinks in surprise and echoes, "Your sister is getting married?"

Phichit rolls his eyes, "Not anytime soon. She still hasn’t found anyone she deems worthy of her time, but my parents are adamant that she should get married before she turns thirty."

"She's only two years older than me," Yuuri says, bewildered, "why the rush?"

"The burden of being the crown princess," Phichit replies, voice lofty, "things like this remind me how happy I am to be the younger sibling. You'll never believe what she said in council right before I left—I swear, all she wants to do is study in the library—she asked the high chancellor to 'hurry up and get to the point' so the session could finish at a reasonable hour."

Yuuri snorts; it's exactly the sort of thing she used to do when they were children, "I think she does that on purpose so she doesn't have to go on as many diplomatic trips as you."

His friend slumps in his chair, "Finally! Someone understands her trickery! I feel like I'm going to spend half of my life on ships at this rate. Yuuri, I'm going to die at sea. Promise me you'll make sure my coffin gets lowered into the ground, the actual dirt of the earth, and not set adrift in some boat when I'm gone."

Laughing, Yuuri pats the back of Phichit's hand and asks about the rest of their shared friends in Ayutthaya. By the time Celestino returns, they've put all talk of Viktor and Yuuri's future firmly on the back burner. Soon, Yuuri will have to face the magnitude of Viktor's real identity (and he's sure Phichit will make sure Minako is aware of it as well), but he's grateful for the respite, for the chance to pretend like nothing is wrong.

It's a skill that made Phichit a vital friend for Yuuri in the aftermath of his parent's deaths—where everyone else treated Yuuri like he was made of glass, just one wrong word from shattering, Phichit somehow knew exactly when Yuuri needed quiet and when Yuuri needed to be distracted.

He finds himself dreading being alone with his thoughts deep into the night.

"Where are you two staying?" he asks.

Phichit shrugs, "We got a room at Minako's but I was going to spend the night here."

"You don't have to worry about me," Yuuri protests half-heartedly.

"Yuuri, we haven't seen each other in years. Is it so hard to believe that I just want to spend time with my best friend?" He claps his hands together, grinning widely, "it'll be like old times when we would have sleepovers in my room!"

It's tempting, "But if you two are apart, Celestino can't guard you properly."

Phichit rolls his eyes, "Ciao Ciao is well and good, but you can protect me much better than he can. Come on, Yuuri, just one night? Then we have more time together before I have to head back to the caravan tomorrow afternoon."

Yuuri glances at Celestino, who shakes his head with a wry grin, "When His Highness makes his mind up over something it takes more than me to change it. Minako's tavern is just down the way, you'll be fine."

So, Yuuri finds himself waving goodbye to Celestino as Phichit makes himself at home. After locking up the shop of the night, Yuuri returns to the back of the cottage to find Phichit moved all his blankets and pillows off the bed to make a large nest in front of the fireplace.

"Aren't we a little old for this?" Yuuri asks, but his question doesn't hold any real sting.

"Yuuri. I need you to promise me something."

The grave tone of Phichit's voice makes Yuuri kneel so they're at eye-level, hanging onto Phichit's words in concern, "What is it?"

"Promise me that you'll stop being so proper, it's boring. I have to deal with courtiers all the time, I don't need all the manners and propriety from you too."

Yuuri gapes, let's Phichit's words sink in, takes a moment to process the request, and shoves Phichit's shoulder, making the younger man collapse backward onto the pillows.

"I thought you were going to say something serious!" Yuuri says, not even able to look upset in the face of Phichit's laughter. He straightens and moves toward his dresser, "just for that, you have to tend the fire tonight."

 

* * *

 

The flames are low and steady, shedding just enough light that they can see each other as they talk without throwing the rest of the room into relief. It makes it feel like nothing outside of their small nest of blankets exists as they trade stories that weren’t important enough to make it into their letters but still worth sharing.

It’s past midnight when Phichit asks, “Can I show you something?”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow, “When have you ever had to ask?”

White teeth flash in response before Phichit turns his attention to the hearth, brows drawing down in such concentration that Yuuri instinctively knows what is going to happen next.

It’s slow, the flames dwindling as if the log is running low, fading away until there’s little more than embers. In the center of the hearth, a flower starts to bloom: petals bright yellow while the stems and leaves are darker reds. The fire flickers in and out of the form, seeming to fight against the shape until it solidifies just long enough for Yuuri to feel like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Phichit lets out a huff of air and the flower vanishes, melting into the rekindled flame, “I find it hard to fathom how you do it so quickly.”

“Phichit,” Yuuri murmurs, “how long have you-”

“Right after you left,” Phichit admits, tone light-hearted in the way that tells Yuuri that Phichit is trying to mask his emotions, “you were the only real friend I had besides my sister—all the other kids got close to me because their parents told them to—and I missed the way you would have the fire dance in time with Minako’s stories.” He rolls on his back, staring at the ceiling as he continues, “and I remembered what you told me that one time: it’s not about controlling the elements, they bow to no one, you can only befriend them and treat them with respect.”

The words are impossible for Yuuri to forget. His mother said them so often: drilled the lesson into Yuuri until he could recite it word for word. His gaze drops from Phichit and Yuuri swallows around the lump in his throat; it took him a lot of time to come to terms with that lesson after watching fire devour everyone he loved.

“I know it was something only the Katsukis did, that’s why I never mentioned it in our letters. I didn’t want to make you upset.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I’m not mad, I think it’s amazing,” he smiles at Phichit, “if anyone outside of our family is going to learn how to handle fire, I think it’s fitting that it is you. Perhaps if we had let others learn the skill, my village would still be standing.”

A hand reaches across the distance between them, and Yuuri lets his fingers lace with Phichit’s, smiling gratefully at the understanding squeeze his friend gives, letting the action stand in the place of words so Yuuri can deal with his grief in quiet.

As soon as Yuuri has his emotions under control, Phichit tugs slightly, “You have to show me what it looks like when a real professional is involved.”

With a laugh, Yuuri flicks his gaze to the hearth. Two figures rapidly form in the center: one on all fours as the second stands on top of the first one’s back, reaching for something out of sight.

Phichit laughs as well, “That’s not the night we sneaked into the kitchens and made such a commotion that the guards thought we were bandits, is it?”

As the words leave Phichit’s mouth, the figure on top loses its balance and tumbles backward. Yuuri can almost hear the smash of pots that accompanied Phichit’s fall and both of their shouts of surprise.

“I thought dad was going to kill me for that one,” Phichit muses, “I got the longest lecture about maintaining the dignity of my station; never mind that I was ten at the time.”

“I didn’t get lectured,” Yuuri says, frowning slightly.

“Of course you didn’t, you were the golden child. After Kannika telling off everyone who interrupted her studies, and me getting into trouble all the time, my parents probably cried tears of joy because of how well-behaved you were. They would be ecstatic to see you again.”

“Phichit…,” Yuuri starts, not wanting to delve back into the discussion of where he’ll go from here.

Phichit shakes his head, “You don’t have to say anything. Can you just promise me that you won’t make a rash decision about all of this?”

Yuuri tries for an easygoing smile, “You’re having me make so many promises today.”

“I’m serious this time. At least stay until I head back to Ayutthaya. We can help you find a new place, if that’s what you decide.”

Something about the request feels odd, and Yuuri’s eyebrows draw down in suspicion, “You are not going to interrogate Viktor about this.”

“How could I? When on earth would Prince Chulanont have had the time to learn Kiev’s crown prince is moonlighting as a palace guard to visit a village healer?” Phichit replies, voice entirely too innocent to be believed. If Phichit wants to question Viktor about his intentions, Yuuri doesn’t doubt that Phichit will find some way to do it.

Sighing, he nods, “Fine. I’ll wait to decide.”

Phichit shifts onto his knees and pulls Yuuri into a hug. It’s slightly awkward, neither of them in a comfortable position for the embrace, but Yuuri melts into it anyways, grateful for Phichit’s support. When Phichit pulls back, he rearranges a few blankets around and lies back down, “Tell me about your friend here—Yuuko—how is she?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kind words here and on tumblr!! I was really nervous writing this as my first yoi fic but your support has been more than I ever anticipated!


	9. home visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri's skills as a healer are requested.

The last thing Viktor expects to see when he enters the queen’s chamber is his mother settled in the sitting room—instead of in her bed—wool blankets swathing her thin form, hands wrapped around a cup of tea. Despite the lit braziers every couple of feet that make the room feel like a hotbox, he can see her shivering as he moves further inside.

"You should be in bed, resting," he informs her as he takes a seat opposite.

His mother purses her lips, "It's just a light cold, Vitya. You know how I hate being unproductive."

Running his eyes over her face, Viktor takes in the pallor of her skin—only offset by a bright blush on her cheeks and the tips of her ears—and the over-bright sheen of her gaze, "You'll feel better quicker if you just take today to sleep, like you should have done when you first felt ill last week."

Predictably, she scoffs at the suggestion, "reading a few reports from my chambers will not make this cold last longer." Viktor opens his mouth to press the matter and she preempts him by saying, "I've already got one mother-hen, I do not need two. You have enough to deal with in my absence."

Smiling slightly, Viktor flicks his eyes to the woman in the far corner, speaking softly to a palace servant, "It's only because Zarya promised to keep you in line that I'll drop the topic."

Ignoring his mother's muttered comment about 'being the queen and taking orders from no one', Viktor drums his fingers in his knees, "I do hope you're feeling well enough to visit with the Ayutthayan delegation before they leave."

"You'll be able handle them without me," Isidora replies, sipping her tea before adding, "Prince Chulanont is quite young, so you're better suited to lead the negotiations anyway. Ayutthaya has been our ally for generations; these talks are more of a formality than anything else."

Viktor nods. He caught a glimpse of the foreign prince the previous evening when the delegation rode into the capital. If his mother was to be sick during a diplomatic visit, this one is preferable than any other.

The main door opens and both royals glance over to see Yuri stepping inside. The squire sweeps a bow to Isidora and Viktor bites back laughter at how much more proper Yuri is with his mother.

"Pardon the interruption, but it is time for His Highness to begin the treaty talks."

With a sigh, Viktor gets to his feet and steps around the low table. Leaning over, he presses a kiss to his mother's forehead—raising an eyebrow at how feverish her skin feels to the touch—and he murmurs, "I'll be sure to let you know if I get us in a war."

Isidora laughs, "I'll be waiting with bated breath. Go on."

When the door to the queen's chambers closes shut behind his back, Viktor is frowning thoughtfully. The expression immediately catches Yuri's attention, who mutters, "You're not going to look like that during the talks, are you?"

"How long would you say it normally takes for someone to get over a cold?" Viktor asks.

His voice is airy, nothing about his tone indicates there's a real purpose behind the question. But Yuri knows Viktor better than to believe there’s real innocence there, and blue eyes narrow in suspicion as Yuri slowly replies, "A week, at most, but grandpa came down with one a few years ago that lasted nearly two weeks."

Viktor nods but doesn't reply, and Yuri presses, "It's just a cold, Viktor."

"I know."

There's a scoff from his squire, but their arrival outside the small council room where the first day's talks will commence prevents Yuri from pushing the point further. Yuri holds open the door, and Viktor pushes the faint prickling of concern for his mother to the side as he sweeps into the council room.

No one is seated yet. Clusters of nobles and scholars mingle with the Ayutthayan delegation. A table full of food is settled near the side of the room, and Viktor immediately picks out the young prince out from the crowd standing just past the food, talking animatedly with a pair of scholars about three times his age.

His approach has the scholars breaking off their conversation quickly, and they bob bows to Viktor before moving on to speak with someone new, leaving Viktor to smile at Prince Chulanont, "Your Highness, I trust your travels to our city were peaceful."

Prince Chulanont is a head shorter than Viktor. His black hair is combed away from his forehead, leaving warm brown eyes and an expressive face easily visible. He's dressed in clothes in a vibrant red, the color of the dye bright in a way that is indicative of Ayutthayan craftsmanship. Unlike Viktor, he doesn't carry a sword, but interesting stories have reached Kiev about the fates of highwaymen who try their hand at ambushing the prince's escorts and there’s a spark of sharp intelligence in the prince’s gaze that warns Viktor not to underestimate him.

Right now, he beams up at Viktor, sweeping a slight bow in deference to being a guest in his host's country as he says, "The seas were calm and your country's highways meticulously maintained. I've been on many journeys but this might have been the smoothest. I was sorry to hear Her Majesty is feeling unwell."

Waving his hand in the air in dismissal, Viktor replies, "A slight cold. Unfortunately, such things pay little mind to the arrivals of strong allies. Queen Isidora bids me to welcome you to Kiev and to convey her hopes that she will be able to meet with you before you depart."

Something flashes across the prince's eyes, there and gone too fast for Viktor to track, "There is nothing anyone can do to control nature. Even a mage like Lord Romanov can do little to help if healing magic is not his specialty. I have no doubt that if you had access to a healer, Queen Isidora would be attending the talks today."

The younger man's voice is light-hearted, an indication that he takes no offense to the queen's absence, but his words feel a little too pointed. There's nothing confrontational in his gaze, but brown eyes are fixed unwaveringly on Viktor's face, as if determined not to miss the slightest slip in expression.

Smiling, Viktor agrees, "The loss of prevalent magic is often felt in the smallest ways. Shall we get started?"

Prince Chulanont nods immediately, eyes twinkling as if laughing at a joke that Viktor isn’t privy too. Viktor knows his mother has decades of political experience, but he can’t help but feel that her assessment on how easily Viktor will be able to handle this man was woefully off-base. The prince doesn’t comment on the less-than-subtle subject change, instead he merely says, “I hope we will get the chance to speak under more casual circumstances?”

“Of course,” it’s the only answer Viktor can give without sounding rude, and even though agreeing to meet with Prince Chulanont alone feels akin to walking into an ambush, he offers, “I would love to host you for dinner tomorrow, if you’re amenable.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

With that, the younger man gives Viktor another nod and makes his way to his seat, immediately leaning over as the man seated to his right whispers in his ear. Viktor takes a few even breaths, attempting to collect himself, before he makes his way to his own seat at the head of the table. His movement through the room has everyone else following suit and the scrape of chairs being pulled out echoes above soft murmurs until Viktor clears his throat and silence falls.

It’s not unusual for all eyes to be on him. Viktor is no stranger to politics and the inner workings of his court, but something about this is so entirely different that he feels his throat go dry, his stomach churn, as he opens his mouth to start the talks.

Perhaps it’s because he is acting in place of the crown. All other times, Viktor speaks as the queen’s representative, or the queen’s champion, or the queen’s son. For the purposes of a treaty with a foreign nation, Viktor _is_ the monarch if only for the next couple of days, and if only in this room.

It’s the comforting knowledge that this is only temporary, that he can end the day with asking for his mother’s feedback and start tomorrow with brand new advice, that helps Viktor push past his nerves as a courtier’s smile spreads across his face, “It is with great pleasure that I welcome Prince Chulanont and the Ayutthayan delegation as we work toward continuing the alliance that has strengthened both of our kingdoms...”

 

* * *

 

The Ayutthayan delegation is scheduled to stay in Kiev for two weeks before returning West and setting sail for their small island in the middle of the sea. It’s why Viktor and Isidora were confident she would recover in enough time to sit down with Prince Chulanont before he left.

That confidence wavers as days progress in a blur with Viktor not only representing the throne in the treaty talks but also filling in for his mother in all other aspects of courtly life as the length of the queen’s absence begins to grow too long for things to be put on hold.

The stress of suddenly being the de facto ruler of Kiev, of turning into the sole point of contact for the treaty talks, of the knowledge that his mother may not be getting worse but her health is certainly not getting better, weighs down on Viktor’s shoulders. Each day it gets harder and harder to force his courtly smile, to laugh along with Prince Chulanont’s jokes—all of which somehow remind Viktor of Yuuri with uncomfortable sharpness—to be not just the perfect prince, but the perfect king.

It feels like the summer is slipping from Viktor’s grasp; the time of carefree warmth that he so covets is fading before his eyes, and he knows Yuri is growing frustrated with how often the squire has to snap Viktor out of his thoughts in rare seconds of peace.

“Vitya? Darling, you drifted off.”

Even now, he can’t properly focus, and he smiles an apology at his mother who is gently squeezing his hand. Her grip is weak—the knowledge makes his smile falter just slightly before he regains control of his facial expressions, “Sorry, I was thinking.”

Isidora shakes her head, frustration filling her eyes, “I should be apologizing to you. There’s so much that needs to be done and you’ve been left to handle it alone.”

“You should not apologize for being sick,” he murmurs, “and I’m not alone.”

It’s obvious on her face that she doesn’t buy the last half of Viktor’s response, but he doesn’t have the energy to defend his statement when they both know it’s a lie. While there are plenty of nobles more than willing to offer Viktor advice on how to run the country, or to even take over facets of those duties to ‘help him maintain order’, all such offers are self-serving and untrustworthy; there is no one Viktor can completely trust besides his mother in such aspects, and she’s spent much more time sleeping in recent days than keeping up with politics.

Turning his head so he can ignore the intensity of his mother’s scrutiny, Viktor catches Lord Romanov’s attention, “Is there any improvement in her condition?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Highness. This illness seems quite stubborn, but since her symptoms are getting no worse we can only assume her body will eventually fight back on its own.”

Romanov’s voice is so smooth, tone so measured, face so expressionless, that Viktor has to bite his tongue to rein in his temper before he’s able to ask with as much calm he can muster, “I find it difficult to believe we are at a point where all we can do is assume she will get better. Have you nothing that can aid in the process?”

He’s not entirely successful in keeping the strain of anger from his voice, that much is obvious from the way his mother squeezes his hand, and the way Romanov immediately slips into a bow, “I have done everything in my power, your highness. Unfortunately, magic is not all-powerful, and I have never claimed to be a Great Mage nor an accomplished healer.”

“If this is truly a ‘simple cold’ as you first put it, you would not need to be either,” Viktor snaps back.

“Viktor,” sick as she is, Isidora’s voice cracks out like a whip in this moment, and Viktor reluctantly stops glaring at their utterly worthless royal mage to meet his mother’s gaze, “you are tired from how much you have been doing these past days. Go get some rest.”

This is not a request from his mother so much as it is an order from the crown, and Viktor doesn’t argue. He presses a kiss to her cheek and walks toward the door, not paying Romanov a second glance as he strides past the mage and into the queen’s sitting room. His own chambers are in the same wing as his mother’s, and Viktor steps inside them with every intent to do as his mother suggested.

Once inside, the idea of retiring for the evening seems impossible. Every line of his body is tense, concern for his mother and anger at Romanov keying him up in a way that usually needs a good practice bout to dispel. Even if he finds someone at this late hour to spar with him, Viktor doesn’t think he can handle another minute of bowing and scraping and being _Prince Nikiforov_.

Yanking a plain black cloak from his wardrobe, Viktor leaves his chambers and strides through the emptying corridors. With his back straight and his face set, no one dares question where he’s going, or why he’s carrying the cloak over his arm.

The stables are silent, all the hostlers gone for the night, and it takes Viktor less than five minutes to saddle his horse for the ride. He clips on his cloak and tugs the hood over his head so it covers his distinctive hair before leading his horse out of the stables, through the courtyard and out the palace gates. Viktor does not sneak out of the palace often, but his few excursions have taught him the importance of an unhurried pace, of looking like he belongs, as he makes his way through town and to the city gates.

One of the guards gives him a friendly nod, which Viktor reciprocates as he mounts his stallion just past the gates. Wheeling the horse to face East, he kicks him into a trot, leaving the capital city behind him.

The first ten minutes of the ride are tense as Viktor keeps an ear out for any indication that his absence was discovered. He’s not overly concerned that someone will notice his disappearance. He’s more than established as crown prince, so no one has reason to suspect him of trying to leave the palace without a guard, and it’s much too late for people to be searching him out on matters less than a crisis.

He simply hopes it’s not too late for Yuuri.

As more distance is put between himself and the royal palace, Viktor feels the tension start to drain from his body. Out here, in the late summer night, cloak covering the high quality of his clothing, crown settled on a pillow in his chambers, and guard mostly asleep in their barracks, Viktor isn’t the crown prince, he’s simply Viktor.

It’s liberating, and he feels a smile tug on his lips as he kicks his horse into a canter, determined to eat up the kilometers between his home and the little village where his title holds no meaning.

Before he knows it, he’s dismounting outside of Minako’s tavern, paying a few coins to the young man she hired to keep track of the occasional traveler’s horse. He jogs the short distance between the tavern and the little cottage full of magic and knocks firmly on the front door.

It’s only when he pulls his hand away that Viktor’s mind catches up with his circumstances. What if Yuuri isn’t even in? What if he’s asleep and Viktor is waking him up and Yuuri hates him for that?

The door swings open before Viktor’s thoughts can delve much deeper and momentary confusion vanishes under the soft smile that makes brown eyes twinkle as Yuuri says, “Hi.”

The smile that vanished under the weight of his temporary concerns pushes back onto Viktor’s face and he’s not sure the slight feeling of breathlessness is a result of his hard ride and light jog. He can’t think of anything else to say other than: “Hi.”

Yuuri swings the door open wider and motions Viktor inside. Viktor’s relieved to note Yuuri is still dressed for the day, evidently, he’s not the type of man to retire early: which means Viktor didn’t wake him up. For the first time, he doesn’t ask if Viktor’s alone or not—probably because the time of the visit answers the question on its own. Usually, Yuuri has questions about Viktor’s sudden appearance, but today he quietly leads Viktor through his shop and into his living quarters and pulls a kettle off the fire, as if he can sense the restlessness under Viktor’s skin, as if he somehow knew Viktor was coming.

“Uh, sorry for coming by so late,” Viktor says, rather lamely.

He’s rewarded with another smile, “It’s fine, I stay up quite late anyways.”

“Were you working?” Viktor asks, glancing around the room for some hint as to what Yuuri had been doing before he arrived.

“No. I helped with Minako’s dinner crowd tonight and then I was just thinking about a few things.”

There’s a weight to the latter half of Yuuri’s sentence that makes Viktor pause in his questions. A gravity implicit behind the words that he would not have noticed if he weren’t accustomed to searching past the words people say in order to learn what they actually mean, “What kind of things?”

Yuuri shrugs, setting a cup of tea in front of Viktor and nursing a second as he takes the seat opposite, “An old friend got in touch. I was mostly thinking about the time we spent together and if I might go visit him soon.”

It’s a bit of a shock to be reminded that Yuuri has a life outside of this village, outside the kingdom of Kiev, that Yuuri possibly has family and friends and history in kingdoms that Viktor has never set foot in. Despite the experience Viktor has in meeting with delegates from neighboring countries, none of it can truly compare to what Yuuri must know having set foot on those kingdoms himself; the realization makes him feel sheltered, uncultured, trapped.

He’s not given the chance to press the matter because Yuuri tilts his head, regarding Viktor curiously, “Is everything okay?”

Viktor opens his mouth to laugh it off and say that everything is wonderful and he just felt like saying hi, but it’s a question that almost never gets posed to him. His mother is often so occupied with running a kingdom that she and Viktor might not spend alone time together for weeks. His handful of friends can read his emotions better than most, but in the recent days they too have kept quiet, as if afraid prodding might make Viktor explode.

So, instead of denying, he lets out a sigh, “I suppose I’m a bit stressed.”

Yuuri sips his tea, raising an eyebrow at Viktor in a silent prompt to continue.

“My mother has been sick for a couple of weeks,” he explains, “so I’ve been torn between doing my duties and helping with her work. There’s a-” he cuts off, searching for a suitably vague way to phrase his next comment, “a sort of family friend who came all the way to the city just to see her and I’ve been entertaining them in the hopes that she would be better by now, but she’s not getting better. I feel like I’m being pulled in too many different directions.”

The corners of Yuuri’s eyes crinkle in the way Viktor has learned means that Yuuri is silently laughing at him, “So you jumped on a horse in the middle of the night to share a cup of tea with me?”

It sounds ridiculous, enough so to make Viktor chuckle before he admits, “I like spending time with you. Everything else doesn’t seem as important and I can just be me.”

He knows that Yuuri doesn’t realize and might never understand the magnitude of that admission, of how much it means to Viktor that he’s found a place where he doesn’t need to be anything more than who he is. Even so, the smile that stretches across Yuuri’s face is so full of understanding that Viktor’s heart feels just a bit lighter for having said everything he did.

Just that would have been enough for Viktor, but the universe must be trying to make up for the shitty couple of weeks he’s had because Yuuri admits, “I like spending time with you too.”

Rapid pounding on the front door shatters the illusion of peace and quiet, and Viktor flinches at the sudden noise, jolting to his feet before Yuuri can react, “I’ll get that.”

He’s out of Yuuri’s living quarters and making his way through the shop before Yuuri can reply, and Viktor opens the door to scowl at Christophe, “He could have been asleep.”

“Because you were concerned about that when you left the palace and went on a two-hour joyride without a single guard or letting anyone know where you went despite there being someone out there _trying to kill you_ ,” Christophe snaps in reply, keeping his voice soft enough that it won’t travel to the backroom, “come on, we have to go.”

“I can’t just leave without saying goodbye,” Viktor protests.

“Viktor? Is everything okay?” It takes all of Viktor’s self-control to keep from jumping at the sudden noise, and he turns, mouth opening to make up some lie about why Yuuri should definitely not be at his own front door and should just let Viktor handle the visitor when Yuuri glances over his shoulder and smiles at Christophe, “did you want to come in?”

“He was just leaving,” Viktor says before Christophe can speak, turning back around to level a glare at his friend, “right?”

“Actually, no. I was coming to bring Viktor back with me,” there isn’t the slightest lack of resolve in green eyes, and it catches Viktor by surprise.

Despite being his guard captain, Christophe is usually fairly lenient about such matters. Sure, it was bad on Viktor to vanish in the middle of the night with a foreign delegation and a possible magical threat looming and—on second thought Viktor can understand why Christophe is upset. He does _not_ understand why he has to leave now that his more than capable guard captain knows where he is.

“Captain!” The shout comes from down the road, in the direction of Minako’s tavern, “we found his horse but the stable boy had no idea where he went.”

Viktor feels his face drain of color, suddenly Christophe’s urgency makes much more sense. If Christophe had been the one to discover Viktor was missing, he would have come alone, but there’s no reason for the other man to visit Viktor so late and no one else would have reason to visit Viktor’s chambers unless something is wrong.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Romanov said she took a drastic turn for the worse. You should be with her, just in case,” Christophe replies, voice as gentle as possible.

Hooves pound on the dirt road, barely audible over the pounding of Viktor’s heartbeat in his ears. He can’t tell which guard it is that recognizes him first, that exclaims “Your Hhighness!” with no care to the late hour or the man hovering behind his shoulder. It feels like all of Viktor’s world is imploding and falling apart in the span of seconds. He doesn’t even feel like he’s in his body, he feels more like he’s an outsider looking in.

Christophe’s news plays over and over again in his head, and Viktor half-turns to look at Yuuri, too overwhelmed to take-in the utter lack of surprise on the other man’s face, “I’m sorry, Yuuri, I have to go.”

“Family is important, don’t worry about me.”

It isn’t fair how Yuuri is still, even now, so understanding. It’s not fair how he’s giving Viktor a slightly sad smile but isn’t angry at Viktor for lying, isn’t demanding explanations, and Viktor doesn’t know if he can stand under gentle brown eyes for much longer without drowning in his own emotions.

So, he nods at Yuuri and follows Christophe into the road. He accepts the reins for his stallion from one of the guards and mounts the horse. Christophe snaps out an order and the small squad moves into a standard formation around Viktor: a veritable barrier to separate Viktor from the village he’s found so much peace in.

He kicks his horse into a trot and starts the ride back to the palace, to his mother, and can’t bring himself to look back.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri stays standing at his door until the last horse's tail is swallowed by the darkness of the night. His smile, glued onto his face when he realized how overwhelmed Viktor was by the whole situation, drops as he steps back into his shop and he swallows around the lump in his throat. True to his promise to Phichit, he hadn’t made any decision on whether or not he will stay in Kiev or leave, but with the sudden outing of Viktor’s identity Yuuri almost feels as if his choice has been made for him.

After all, it’s likely that Viktor was able to visit him without the pack of armed guards at his heels only because Yuuri didn’t know Viktor’s title. There’s something definitive about watching Viktor get collected and escorted back to the capital. There’s a sense of foreboding that makes it feel like this will be the last time he’ll ever see Viktor.

The soft, gentle smile that stretched across Viktor’s face when he admitted he enjoyed spending time with Yuuri had made Yuuri feel light-headed, had stolen his breath away in a way that was difficult to recover from. Yuuri doesn’t want the pained look etched on Viktor’s face at the news of his mother being the last expression he ever sees.

Yuuri drops his head against the wood of his shop door, hoping the coolness will help him gather his thoughts at least well enough for him to get some sleep tonight.

For the third time that night, knocking cuts through the stillness of the night, startling Yuuri out of his thoughts. He rears back from the door, staring at it, wondering if he’s hearing things. The knocking sounds again, a frantic edge to it that has Yuuri scrambling to unlock and open the door.

Viktor is standing at his threshold again, hair disheveled, cloak now barely covering clothing likely worth more than Yuuri makes in a month, looking as if he wheeled his horse around and galloped back through the village.

“Viktor?” Yuuri asks, trying to puzzle through the other man’s sudden reappearance as shouts of his guard—no doubt just as shocked by Viktor’s sudden turnabout as Yuuri—sound in the distance.  

“You weren’t surprised.”

Yuuri frowns, he is more than surprised at the moment, “Come again?”

“When they called me ‘your highness’, you weren’t surprised. It means you knew the whole time that I’m royalty.”

“Ah…,” Yuuri is still trying to keep up with the rapid turn of events, he isn’t prepared with an elegant lie, and he doubts Viktor would believe one.

His lack of a response doesn’t matter because Viktor keeps talking, eyes sharp on Yuuri’s face, “You’re a real mage, aren’t you?”

“Viktor-”

“She’s dying, Yuuri,” Viktor cuts off the protest on the tip of Yuuri’s tongue, a pleading note creeping into his voice, “my mother, she’s getting worse and nothing anyone has done is helping. Please, just, take a look at her.”

The desperation in Viktor’s tone tugs at Yuuri’s heartstrings and he glances at where the escort, led by Christophe, is almost back upon them. According to what Viktor said earlier that night, the queen has been sick for at least two weeks, possibly more considering that most people wouldn’t be concerned about the length of a cold until it stretched past three or four days. It certainly sounds like an illness beyond the capabilities of the average palace nurse.

“Let me get my cloak and my kit,” Yuuri says, turning before he can fully take in the relief that floods Viktor’s face at his agreement.

Half-a-dozen warring thoughts about how idiotic it is for him to go to the palace, let alone attend the queen, and how he can’t refuse Viktor when he seems so forlorn run through Yuuri’s head as he quickly packs a few necessities. After a moment of indecision, he plucks a specific vial from the back shelf of his shop and stuffs it in his bag before returning to the door and locking it behind him.

Viktor is already mounted on his horse, arguing softly with Christophe when Yuuri approaches them, but as soon Yuuri is within earshot, Viktor cuts off the conversation with a sharp comment before holding out a hand in offering to Yuuri. As soon as Yuuri takes the offered hand, Viktor swings him into the saddle to land just behind Viktor.

Grateful for the dark night, so no one mentions the blush on his cheeks, Yuuri wraps his arms around lean torso and presses himself against Viktor’s back as the taller man kicks his horse into a walk and then a jog.

The easy gait eats up the kilometers between the village and capital city until they’re being waved into the gates and are trotting through the city streets. It's surreal to see the capital like this, from horseback in the dead of night, when Yuuri is used to seeing it alive and dynamic in the middle of bustling festivals. Few people are out at this hour, and those who are immediately rush to get out of the way of the uniformed riders that form a loose circle around Viktor’s horse.

They’re waved through the palace gates just as quickly and Yuuri stares up at the looming silhouette of the castle, grateful that he had a light dinner as his stomach begins to churn. In the courtyard, blond hair catches in the moonlight and Yuuri blinks down at a visibly surprised Yurio.

“What is he doing here?” Yurio asks, accepting the reins as they’re passed down from Viktor.

Viktor swings from the saddle, “Making a home visit for a sick patient.”

“You left in the middle of the night without an escort to go get this fake to look at the queen?”

It’s a bit of a relief to hear Yurio’s blunt manner of speaking isn’t part of their commoner charade, and Yuuri dismounts without a word to defend himself. Evidently, he has no need to defend himself because Viktor’s tone leaves no room for argument as he says, “I left to speak with him. When Chris came and blew my cover I learned that Yuuri already knew who I was.”

Yurio turns to scowl at Yuuri, “That makes him suspicious.”

“Yurio, they said she was getting worse,” Viktor prods.

At the mention of the queen’s condition, Yurio deflates, eyes dropping to the ground as he nods before he turns on his heels, “She’s been asking for you.”

Following Viktor and Yurio through the royal palace feels more like a dream than anything else. They hardly see a soul until they’re upon a set of double doors where a pair of armed guards are posted outside. Both guards nod to Viktor as Yuri opens the door and waits for the older man to pass.

Yuuri takes in the sprawling sitting room with a bit of trepidation. Only now, that he’s in the midst of the luxury that only being a royal can provide, does he feel like the weight of his circumstances catch up to him. Even though he’s known Viktor’s status and has been grappling with its implications for more than a week, it has never felt as real as it does looking at the massive chambers full of hovering servants and nurses and one or two people who look like important officials. To their left, a second set of doors is open and people move in and out of them in a rush, dropping their gazes to the floor as Viktor leads Yuuri through them.

His nerves vanish when Yuuri steps into the queen’s bedchambers and takes sight of the mess before him. People hover around the side of the rooms, talking loud enough that it would be a miracle if the queen got any sleep. Three different nurses stand next to a tall man dressed all in black who glitters purple in Yuuri’s Sight—the royal mage.

“Why are all these people here?” Yuuri murmurs, irritated by the complete disregard for basic health needs.

Viktor is already frowning at the circus, “I don’t know. She’s sick but she’s not dead.”

Before Yuuri can reply, Viktor is clearing his throat and pitching his voice so it’s heard clearly in every corner of the room, “While I appreciate the devotion being shown by everyone here, the only people needed in this room are those who can help nurse the sick back to health. The rest of you should not neglect your own health by staying awake at odd hours, please retire to your chambers.”

It’s like watching the aftermath of a well-cast spell: people immediately bow to Viktor and begin streaming out of the room, voices dropping into whispers so as not to disturb the queen, and Yuuri’s certain his jaw is hanging open as he watches men and women (some likely old enough to be Viktor’s parents) obeying his word like it’s law.

When everyone useless is gone, Viktor turns his focus on the mage and nurses, “I wish to have a few moments alone with my mother, please wait in the sitting room.”

“While I commend your highness for throwing out the politicians, my presence here is vital,” the mage replies, and Yuuri drags his gaze away from the stiff line of Viktor’s back to settle on a face that is just barely familiar, “it has always been my duty to look after her majesty’s health.”

“It will just be for a few minutes,” Viktor replies.

The mage— _Ilya,_  a distant part of Yuuri’s mind supplies—turns black eyes on Yuuri. They narrow slightly and Yuuri feels his breath catch in his throat, his heart seems to triple in speed as he waits for the mage to out his identity to Viktor.

Instead, Ilya asks, “And who might this young man be?”

Slowly, Yuuri releases the held breath. Of course Ilya won’t recognize him. The spell his mother cast that night so many years ago essentially wiped Yuuri’s existence from living memory, and he was a child when the older man left the village in search of work.

The relief is short-lived, because the ice in Viktor’s tone has Yuuri unsettled all over again, “I do not recall my orders being up for your review, Lord Romanov. Kindly retire to the sitting room until I am finished here.”

Fire crackles in black eyes, but Ilya bows and sweeps out the room without another word.

When the door closes behind the mage, Viktor rushes to his mother’s bedside. The regal atmosphere around him vanishes in a breath as he gingerly sits on the edge of the bed and brushes a few strands of hair from the queen’s face, “Mama, I’m here. Can you talk to me?”

“Vitya?” The queen’s voice is soft, noticeably weak, and she says the name with such tenderness that Yuuri feels the urge to look away and give mother and son a moment alone. He keeps watching, however, fascinated by the way Viktor practically melts into the hand that his mother places on the side of his cheek.

“I brought a healer to look at you.”

“We have Romanov.”

Viktor snorts, “I don’t trust Romanov as far as I can throw him. Besides, Yuuri specializes in healing magic.”

“Yuuri?” The queen finally seems to notice they’re not alone and her eyes turn to pin Yuuri where he stands. Sick and feverish as she is, Queen Isidora’s gaze is still sharp as she considers him from across the room, “you dragged him all the way from that village over a cold?”

_Viktor had told the queen about him?_

“I just needed some space, a break from being the crown prince,” Viktor admits, “the guards found me at his shop so I figured it didn’t hurt to ask. Do you mind?”

Noticeably absent in Viktor’s quick retelling is the little factor of Yuuri already knowing Viktor’s identity. Judging by Yurio’s harsh reaction, Yuuri is grateful Viktor skips that detail.

The queen smiles slightly at Yuuri, “I’ve heard amazing things about your skills, Yuuri.”

Taking that as his cue to move into action, Yuuri crosses the room to stand on the opposite side of the bed as Viktor. He places his bag on the low bedside table as he says, “I don’t doubt they’re exaggerated just a bit.”

She hums, “I appreciate humility, but self-deprecation is unbecoming.”

Yuuri drops her gaze, aware that a blush is likely high on his cheeks at the gentle berating, “What have your symptoms been like, Your Majesty?”

“Fatigue, mostly,” there’s a hint of amusement in her voice as she flows with his graceless topic change, “my limbs feel heavy like they have been weighed down and I’ve been sleeping most of the day for the better part of a week. I haven’t been able to keep much food down either, which I imagine is why moving too much makes me dizzy. Lord Romanov tells me I’ve been running a high fever these last few days as well.”

“No cough?” Yuuri asks.

“None.”

Frowning, Yuuri presses the back of his hand to her temple, eyes widening at how hot she is to the touch, “What about a headache?”

“No.”

“Sore throat?”

“No.”

Leaning back, Yuuri narrows his eyebrows, thinking, “Are you nauseous all the time or just after you eat? Can you keep down water?”

“Only after I eat or drink, and no.”

An idea begins to form in the back of Yuuri’s mind and he digs into his bag, “What time of day did you first start feeling unwell?”

The queen’s own eyebrows draw down, “What do you mean?”

“Did you first start noticing something was wrong in the morning, after you woke up? Or perhaps it was after the noon meal or a long council session.”

“After I woke up,” the queen answers, “does that mean something?”

“It depends,” Yuuri mumbles, mind more focused on the stone he pulls from his bag than affording the proper deference to the queen.

In the darkness of the late hour the clear quartz is almost invisible. Carefully refined so it’s translucent and shaped into a sphere that sits comfortably in the palm of his hand; this particular stone is one Yuuri seldom has to rely on for the minor ailments he treats in the village.

“Would you mind holding this for a moment?” he asks, offering the stone to the queen.

Isidora takes the stone from Yuuri’s hand, nearly dropping it due to her body’s current weakness. Prepared, Yuuri’s other hand catches her wrist, holding her arm steady. The skin-on-skin contact and the queen’s distraction work in unison, allowing Yuuri to slip his magic into her body and race through her veins, searching for an irregularity at the speed of light, for an answer that Yuuri hopes—for Viktor’s sake—won’t come.

The quartz begins to glow a dull red in the queen’s hand, and Yuuri draws his magic back and plucks the stone from her grip with a murmured word of gratitude.

“What does that mean?” Viktor asks, watching the quartz disappear from sight, back into Yuuri’s bag.

“It means there are toxins,” when the answer comes, it doesn’t leave Yuuri’s lips.

Eyes wide, Yuuri drops his hand from the queen’s arm, momentarily distracted from the grim results by her knowledge, “You know how to read the colors?”

She gives him a wry smile, “I once had the privilege of seeing the last Magic Keeper heal half a village. I am no mage but I am familiar with a few of their tricks. Does it have a cure?”

Yuuri nibbles on his bottom lip, poisons aren’t exactly his area of expertise, “It might, but that would depend on me knowing what poison it was and you’ve been sick two weeks?” He pauses, waiting for the queen’s nod of affirmation before continuing, “two weeks, which likely makes it almost three weeks since it entered your system. That’s much too long to trace and find a source.”

“If we were to suppose that the extent of your magical capabilities is greater than you have thus far admitted, would you be able to cleanse it from my system?”

Still lost in the theoretical side of healing, something he hasn’t need to bother with for some time, Yuuri answers automatically, “Not safely. It’s been long enough that such a method could kill you as easily as heal you.”

“Both of you, stop,” Viktor cuts through the conversation.

Yuuri blinks, surprised, and judging by the slight widening in the queen’s eyes he guesses that she also forgot that Viktor was in the room. Reluctantly, Yuuri turns his attention to Viktor and feels a flood of guilt rush him at the pained look on the other man’s face.

Viktor seems to gather his thoughts, turning over what he might say in his mind before asking, “Someone poisoned my mother?”

“Uh,” now that Yuuri’s been yanked out of the pure theory of the situation, the gravity of the moment rapidly catches up to him, “there’s poison in her body but it’s hard to say if it was introduced on purpose or on accident.”

“Someone has tried and failed to kill me twice in as many months, there’s nothing accidental about this. We need to tell the royal guard, have them-”

“Viktor,” Isidora cuts across Viktor, voice firm in a way that immediately has her son falling silent, “give us a moment.”

“But-”

“That was not a request.”

Viktor scowls, but rises to his feet and leaves the room, closing the door firmly shut behind himself, leaving Yuuri alone with the queen.

 

* * *

 

He paces in the sitting room.

Viktor can’t tell if one minute has passed or one hour, and he doesn’t particularly care. All he cares about is that his mother was _poisoned_ and she kicked him out of the room to discuss the details with Yuuri. That’s not to say he regrets bringing Yuuri to see her, after all, Romanov had two weeks to figure out what was wrong with his mother and Yuuri figured it out in ten minutes, but the idea that she shut him out of the conversation rubs Viktor raw. He deserves to know the truth.

“Will you sit down? You’re fucking annoying,” Yuri asks from his seat.

Viktor glances over his shoulder to where his squire is _reading a damned book_ while poison is coursing through his mother’s body and snaps, “If it bothers you, you can leave.”

Flipping a page, Yuri says, “No, I can’t. Chris gave me orders not to leave you alone until you go back to your chambers.”

“Last time I checked, my word supersedes his.”

“Not when Chris has declared you a flight risk,” Yuri counters, “the last thing we need is for you to run back off and get jumped by highwaymen. You can swing a sword but you can’t fight ten people at once. Honestly, you’re the crown prince, why don’t you try acting like it?”

Viktor scowls but doesn’t reply. He has more to worry about than his squire’s notoriously short temper. Toward the corner of the room, he hears Romanov clear his throat, and Viktor silently warns the man to keep his mouth shut.

His silent warning gets ignored, “Your Highness, might I ask who that young man is?”

“A healer,” Viktor replies.

“Given the rarity of true mages, I find it difficult to believe that any opinion he gives on the queen’s condition has merit.”

Yuri snorts, “I’ve been saying that for weeks.”

“Weeks?” Romanov repeats, his tone finally coloring with an emotion that sounds like intrigue, “and what are his qualifications?”

The door to the queen’s bedroom opens to reveal the man in question. He catches Viktor’s eyes and says, “She wants to speak with you.”

Crossing the room, Viktor searches Yuuri’s gaze for any hint about what their private conversation had entailed, about what he’s walking into. But Yuuri merely gives him a small smile and steps into the sitting room, letting Viktor close the door behind himself so he’s alone with his mother.

She’s sitting up, pillows propped behind her back to support her and Viktor rushes back to his place at her bedside, reaching for one of her hands and squeezing gently as he perches on the edge of the mattress, “What did Yuuri say?”

“He listened, mostly,” she replies, “and now I need you to listen as well.”

Biting his tongue, pushing back the flood of questions, is difficult but Viktor nods in agreement.

Isidora smiles, “Yuuri says there is a chance I will be able to recover. Either the poison was accidental or a small dosage was used in the hopes that it would be too late when someone noticed. He’s agreed to stay and watch my condition for three days. At the end of the three days he will tell me if I will be able to recover or if it is too late: he said that’s how long it will take for the fatal symptoms of the poison to manifest.

“I need you to continue as you have been for those days. No one outside the three of us will know about Yuuri’s findings until those three days pass. If this was a deliberate attempt on my life I do not want to spook the one responsible.”

It’s a hard-fought battle to keep his voice even as he asks, “And what if Yuuri says you won’t recover?”

“You will consult with the Babichevs to find who is responsible, and my time on the throne will have come to a close,” she brings a hand up to brush the fringe from Viktor’s face, “Vitya, it was difficult to convince Yuuri to remain in the palace for these three days, but if worst comes to pass he may be your best asset in catching the culprit and strengthening your hold on the throne. There is more at stake than either yours or his emotions. Do you understand?”

Viktor nods, “I understand, but it won’t come to that. If anyone can heal you, it’s Yuuri.”

That pulls a light laugh from her, “Your faith in him is refreshing. I wasn’t sure that side of you survived all these years of court.”

Leaning over, he presses a kiss to her cheek, “Get some rest, mama, I’ll make sure he gets settled in.”

He helps her slide back down the bed and pulls the blankets up high to ward off the chill of the night. Viktor’s hand is on the handle of her door when he hears her pipe up again, “Vitya?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, darling.”

It sounds too much like a goodbye, but he smiles at her over his shoulder, “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve gotten a few questions about Yuuri’s background with royalty/royal courts given that he spent a lot of time with Phichit in Ayutthaya. A lot of this will be addressed in coming chapters but here's some information for a crash course:
> 
> Phichit’s family provided sanctuary for Yuuri immediately after he fled his home; he lived in Ayutthaya from age 10 to age 18 before moving to Kiev. During that time he was never introduced to court, so while he learned about some things through proxy of spending time with the royal family, he’s not overly comfortable with all the intricacies of court politics.

> 
>  **Update:** I've gotten a few questions about how Isidora knows Yuuri's name. This is not a reference to whether or not she's met him before but to the extensive information gathering she began performing in chapter four: the reports and has been continuing since.


	10. royal healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri's stumbled into a temporary position as the royal healer; he's not sure how well it's going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Alright_ , please excuse the longer gap between updates due to the fact that this chapter was a beast to write. I knew it was going to be on the long side, but I did not know it would be _this_ long. 
> 
> A note to anyone who read my last update before I edited my end a/n: I've gotten a few questions about how Isidora knows Yuuri's name. This is not a reference to whether or not she's met him before but to the extensive information gathering she began performing in chapter four: the reports and has been continuing since.
> 
> Equivalent Exchange has a fic playlist and it's finally ready for more people than myself to listen to! The songs are placed to match the flow of the story but feel free to enjoy it on shuffle. From this point on, I'll have a note that tells you which song numbers correspond to the chapter. To avoid any spoilers based on these songs, I'll be listing the specific song titles in the end notes.
> 
> [**Fic Playlist** || listen on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq)  
> 
> 
> * Chapter 10 = Songs 6 & 7  
> 

Life moves at a different speed in the royal palace.

That's what Yuuri expected to feel, anyways, but the reality isn't quite so neat.

If there was some massive divide between the palace and his normal life, Yuuri thinks he might be able to deal with his current circumstances better. As it is, the luxury of the room given the title of being 'his', and the guards Yuuri passes as he comes in and out of the queen's chambers, are the only real changes to his normal routine.

Tucked away near the royal wing, close enough to the queen that he could be in her room at the slightest change in her well-being, Yuuri feels just as cut off from the bustle of Kiev as he does in his little cottage, two hours away. He still wakes up near dawn and makes himself a cup of tea, still mentally inventories the salves and herbs he has in supply and what will need replenishing, still pulls on modestly made clothes (because someone was sent to his home to make sure he had spares), and sets out of his room with the intent to heal as many ailments as he can without drawing attention to himself.

Which is the crux of his problem, because Yuuri is now the center of attention. The guards stationed outside the queen's chambers nod politely to Yuuri, because a pendant around his neck— silver with blue markings—gives him unfettered access to the monarch of one of the last great kingdoms standing. When Yuuri steps into the bedroom, any nurses tasked with watching Isidora during his absence scramble to their feet, moving out of his way as if Yuuri is their superior officer. And when he steps up next to the bed and smiles shyly at his current charge, Yuuri has to remind himself that this isn't just Viktor's mother, but a queen.

Her smile and soft, "Good morning, Yuuri," doesn't help his case.

Because Yuuri has a hard time remembering to be on his guard when everyone seems so welcoming, when he was absorbed into life in the palace with no fanfare, when the only people he interacts with seem to have the Nikiforovs' best interests at heart over any political maneuvering, when Yuuri's sole purpose is to be himself.

"How did you sleep?" he asks, sitting on the stool situated at the side of the bed for visitors as the room empties, leaving them alone.

Isidora's smile turns wry, "As well as can be expected."

"And how are you feeling?"

"I'm forced to repeat my previous answer."

It's the second full day of Yuuri's agreed upon three-day stay, and he's already learned that the queen's dry sense of humor is a comedic contrast to her son's tendency for dramatics.

"But you're not feeling worse?" he presses.

Isidora tilts her head thoughtfully, considering the question, before she sighs, "I do not believe so, but I have been unwell long enough that it is hard to tell."

"That's alright." Yuuri says, getting up from his seat so he can begin checking her vitals, "as we discussed earlier, I'm not necessarily looking for you to start getting better so much as waiting to make sure there isn't a drastic turn for the worse. It would be quite obvious, so this is encouraging."

Sense of humor notwithstanding, there's more than a few traits shared between mother and son. The bright blue eyes are the most obvious among these, and the way Isidora's sharply watch Yuuri reminds him of the times right before Viktor would ask a question that made Yuuri's skin crawl with how pointed it was.

It turns out that tell is another shared trait, because Isidora asks, "Have you seen much of Viktor since you arrived?"

"No, I haven't." Yuuri actually hasn't seen him at all since Viktor had made sure he was settled in a nearby room after being informed of Yuuri's agreement to stay.

"So, I assume he hasn't told you about his duel."

Yuuri gently lifts one of the queen's wrists, fingers easily finding the pulse point as he replies, "Not in so many words. We discussed it once, before I knew who he was, or that he was the one who fought in the duel."

"My mage tells me that Viktor was stabbed with a blade coated with magic, and that Viktor should have died in that arena." Yuuri doesn't let his eyes flick up to meet hers, "he has been at a loss to explain how Viktor survived, but I've heard rumor that you crafted him a protection charm."

Leaning back from the bed, Yuuri takes a steadying breath before meeting the queen's gaze, "Do you have a question to ask me, Your Majesty?"

The corner of Isidora's mouth quirks up, whether at Yuuri's bluntness or his sudden deference to her title he can't decide, and she muses, "Let us suppose you did gift Viktor such a charm, and he hasn't removed it since, would this hypothetical charm have protected Viktor from the poison?"

A sharp voice in the corner of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Minako warns Yuuri to keep his mouth shut, but he's never been quite able to resist intelligent questions about his craft.

"It depends. Such a charm, theoretically, would only have been crafted to protect him from magical attacks. While a poison can be formed with magic, there are also poisons that occur in nature; a charm like the one you suggest would have protected against the first kind and not have recognized the second." Yuuri hesitates, before plowing on, "the caster of such a charm could also tell when it activates, so if I had made one for Viktor, I would tell you it has only activated during the duel."

"So, either this poison is natural or Viktor is not a target." Isidora finishes.

Yuuri shrugs, "I cannot say, Your Majesty."

She tilts her head, eyes narrowed slightly as she considers Yuuri's face, searching for signs of deception. Uncomfortable under the intensity of her scrutiny, Yuuri busies himself with the rest of his check-up, searching for any signs of change compared to the previous morning. Isidora sits through everything in relative silence, answering Yuuri's questions in a murmur, giving the impression that her mind is elsewhere.

Yuuri is packing his tools when she speaks up again.

"Viktor cherished all those trips he took to your village," she says, a small smile curling on her lips. Yuuri's noticed that whenever she brings up her son, fondness flickers across her face no matter how tired she is or how dire the topic, "I imagine it will be hard for him to stop visiting."

Frowning, Yuuri says, "He's still welcome at my shop. I enjoy spending time with him."

"Of course, if I recover, I don't see any reason why he would not continue visiting. However, the crown of a king is a heavy burden, it does not allow for trivial connections. When he inherits the throne—be it tomorrow or the next decade—the pair of you will no longer be able to pretend there is no difference in your social status."

"With all due respect, it was not pretend on my part, I only just learned who Viktor is."

Isidora waves her hand, dismissing the statement. "What do you think of Lord Romanov?"

The sudden topic change catches Yuuri off-balance and he blinks, trying to follow the queen's thread of logic, "I'm sorry, who?"

"Our royal mage, I believe you met briefly when you first arrived."

Measuring black eyes come to mind and Yuuri struggles to keep his face unreadable. "I think he likely performs well at what he does, but it is difficult to heal someone without the necessary knowledge."

"I agree, which makes me curious where you earned yours." Isidora muses, but she doesn't seem interested in pressing the matter because she continues, "Romanov came into my service as a young man with no experience in courts and politics. I'm afraid his induction was quite the trial by fire: it has shaped him into the kind of person Viktor cannot agree with by nature."

"Viktor doesn't trust him."

Isidora sighs, "His dislike of Lord Romanov is no secret. My son is a shrewd politician and will be a great king one day, but there are still subtleties that he lacks: there is no quicker way to create an enemy out of an ally than proving you do not trust them."

The solemn tone of the queen's voice makes Yuuri feel like he's stumbled into a conversation completely out of his depth. For all that he lived with Phichit's family, Yuuri has spent minimal time in court, has no experience in politics other than the details he received in Phichit's letters.

"Do you trust Lord Romanov?" he asks, voice soft, afraid of being overheard.

Her eyes leave Yuuri's, shifting to study the dresser across the room. Yuuri follows the line of her gaze to the royal crown, seated atop a deep red cushion.

"Trust is a luxury I cannot afford, but I believe Ilya has a good heart—he's already done much to prove that to me..." she trails off, lost in thought, before she adds, "Ilya has always had a thirst for knowledge that Kiev cannot satisfy, I hoped to be well enough to speak with Prince Chulanont and see if there might be a place for Ilya in Ayutthaya: the universities and libraries in that kingdom would be an excellent reward for his years of service."

If Isidora's words weren't so clear, her voice so even, Yuuri might have assumed she was succumbing to her fever—it's difficult to think of any other reason why she would be disclosing such information to Yuuri, given his position as an outsider.

"Why are you telling me this?"

The queen's gaze moves back to Yuuri's, her eyes locking on his, "Lord Romanov cannot remain the royal mage while Viktor is king. I am asking you to consider the possibility of becoming the royal mage in his stead." Yuuri opens his mouth immediately to protest the offer and is brought to a halt by a hand held up, palm out, "I am not asking for your decision today. It is my hope that it is not something you will have to consider for some years, but if your connection with Viktor is as strong as he makes it seem, I would hope this is preferable to cutting all ties from him on the day he becomes king."

When Yuuri leaves the queen's bedroom, he feels like his head is going to split in two. His feet carry him out of the sitting room, past the guards, and in the opposite direction of the room he has spent all of his time at the palace hiding inside. It's only when the staleness of the indoor air gives way to the scent of flowers and the gentle brush of the late summer breeze that Yuuri tugs himself from his thoughts to take in his surroundings.

He's in a garden.

Green gleams up at him from all sides, speckled with reds and yellows as the last of the season's flowers begin to close. Yuuri takes a deep breath, unaware how much being in the city, away from nature, had worn him ragged. When he exhales, his feet give out underneath him and he plops down on a patch of grass in the small alcove he stumbled into.

Here, the sounds of the castle feel like a distant memory. Occasionally, footsteps pass nearby, but no one seems inclined to make the turn that will have them passing by his miniature sanctuary.

Letting his eyes flutter shut, Yuuri leans back so he's lying down. He pulls off his glasses, laying them on his chest so he can feel the sun’s rays warm his face. Yuuri wonders if Viktor ever has the time to take in the serenity of this section of the palace.

A shout sounds out, followed by a peal of laughter that brings a smile to Yuuri's lips. He listens to the mystery person yell, tries to imagine what has them running outside with such haste.

The wind picks up into a gust that has Yuuri's eyes flying open, glaring up into the open sky, more than familiar with the wind's mischievous nature. He plucks a blade of grass and flicks it into the air to say ' _what are you up to now?'_

As if answering his question, a hat plops on his face, dropped as the wind suddenly dies down.

With a huff, Yuuri sits up, letting the hat fall onto his lap, frowning at the familiar shape of the accessory.

"Yuuri?"

Yuuri looks up from the hat to meet wide brown eyes and manages to give a weak smile, "Surprise?"

Phichit drops to the ground, kneeling next to Yuuri, completely oblivious to the fact that the grass and dirt will stain his expensive silk trousers. His voice lowers to a murmur as he switches from speaking Kievan to his native tongue, "What are you doing here?"

"Viktor asked me to come," Yuuri replies in the same language.

"Viktor?" Phichit repeats, voice nearly inaudible, still reeling from the shock of stumbling upon Yuuri. He doesn't stay confused for long, because his eyes narrow slightly and he asks, "how sick is the queen?"

“You knew she was sick?”

“The prince mentioned she had a cold the first day I was here, it’s why she hasn’t met with me.” Phichit explains, “but still, it must be bad if he asked you to look at her and you said yes.”

For the first time since settling in the garden, Yuuri is hyperaware of the fact that there are no walls around him, nothing to prevent a potential eavesdropper from hearing everything he murmurs, "I...I can't really say."

"Prince Chulanont?" The call comes from closer to the castle, and both men glance in the direction of the shout. If someone discovered them here, conversing in Ayutthayan, it would be a miracle if Yuuri wasn't accused of being a spy.

Phichit turns back to Yuuri, "Are you okay? I can get you out of here."

The question makes Yuuri pause, all of his focus had been on the queen's wellbeing that he hadn't stopped to consider how he was handling his sudden introduction to the Kievan royalty, "I'll be fine, I only agreed to stay for a few days."

"Your Highness! Are you here?"

This shout is closer, and Yuuri jumps in surprise at its proximity. Phichit doesn't move, eyes scanning Yuuri's face as Phichit clearly tries to decide if Yuuri is telling the truth or trying to placate him.

"Really, Phichit. I'll be okay. Go."

"If you need me, get a message to anyone on my staff," Phichit murmurs, waiting for Yuuri to nod before he plucks his hat from Yuuri's lap and gets to his feet.

Yuuri doesn't dare move a muscle as his friend jumps onto the main path and waves cheerily at someone out of sight with a laugh as he says (switching back to Kievan), "The wind stole my hat!"

"A servant could have found that for you, your highness. We wouldn't want you to get lost."

Another laugh (light and twinkling and completely fake) comes from Phichit as he makes his way toward the speaker, "Since you followed me, everything worked out for the best. Shall we head back?"

Their voices fade away, leaving Yuuri in solitude once more. Sighing, he hugs his knees to his chest, dropping his forehead to rest against his legs—his life was less complicated before he met Viktor.

Before Viktor, it was a simple decision to push away anyone who got too close to the truth.

Before Viktor, the only magic Yuuri had to perform was basic healing and protection spells, tapping into the mere minimum of his magical reserves to do what needed taking care of.

Before Viktor, the threat of whatever killed his parents was a distant phantom, something he didn’t need to be concerned with as long as he kept his head down. But if he became the royal mage it would be miraculous if his identity stayed secret for long.

It should be a simple decision: thank the queen for her offer and turn it down, leave with Phichit at the end of his visit and return to the relative safety of the Chulanonts’ protection.

The idea leaves a sour taste in Yuuri’s mouth, his fingers dig into the skin of his legs as if subconsciously asking to stay put. Yuuri doesn’t want to leave Viktor. The unbridled joy Viktor expresses every time Yuuri does the simplest charm brings a light to Yuuri’s life that he hadn’t realized was missing, it pushes past bittersweet feeling that Yuuri used to associate with his magic, with the representation that he survived when his family did not—Viktor’s presence has made magic fun again.

A gentle breeze ruffles his hair, carrying the nearly inaudible sound of whispering fabric with it, and Yuuri lifts his head from his legs, meeting curious blue eyes.

“If you catch a cold out here, Viktor will throw a fit,” Mila says, offering a small smile, “can I walk you inside?”

Until that comment, Yuuri hadn’t realized the numbness creeping into his fingers and nose. Nodding, he gets to his feet with a smile of his own, “Thanks.”

They set off through the garden. This time, Yuuri pays attention to his path, acutely aware that he would have no idea how to return to his room on his own.

“Copper for your thoughts?” Mila asks when they step on the path.

Yuuri sighs, running his hand through his hair, “I’m just confused. This is a lot to process.”

She laughs slightly, “That’s fair. You went from being a village healer to being the royal healer overnight. I’m sure interacting with her majesty can be intimidating.”

Not for the first time since learning Viktor’s identity, Yuuri wonders what exactly Mila’s role in court is. Glancing sideways at her, he takes in her appearance: her clothing is well-made, expensive, she must be some sort of noble. What stands out to Yuuri is the way that all of her conversations seem to involve questions hidden behind statements, as if she’s always mining for information.

“Getting used to the titles is hard...what do I call you?”

Mila’s lips curl into a smirk, “Now that everything is out in the open, I should tell you that I don’t buy your country bumpkin act. You’re too careful with your words.” The bluntness surprises Yuuri, but Mila just gives him a wink, “I haven’t mentioned it to anyone, you haven’t given me a reason to. You can call me Mila, though the servants refer to me as Lady Babicheva.”

They turn a corner, and Yuuri turns her answer over in his mind, deciding to match her bluntness with some truth of his own, “The Babichev family handles espionage for the crown.”

It’s not a question, and it pulls another laugh from Mila, this one almost gleeful, “I had no idea you would be this much fun, Yuuri.” She comes to a stop outside the doors to his chambers. “I’ll offer you a deal.”

Yuuri turns to face her, “What kind of deal?”

“An answer for an answer. Each time I ask you a question, you get to ask one back: I’ll reply with an answer equivalent to the one you gave me.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow, wondering if Mila knew how closely her deals mirrors the most basic laws of magic, “So, a lie for a lie, and a half-truth for a half-truth?”

“Exactly.”

“For how long?”

“As long as you stay. Interested?”

There’s a dangerous glint in blue eyes, a mixture of amusement and determination that sets Yuuri on edge. Yuuri isn’t particularly knowledgeable about the political standings of the different Kievan nobility, but when he decided to move to Kiev, Phichit had forced Yuuri to sit through a (long-winded) lecture about the powerful names in the kingdom. The historical loyalty between the Babichevs and Nikiforovs, and the fact that Viktor trusted Mila enough to bring her to meet Yuuri, is enough to reassure Yuuri that Mila won’t use any information to harm Viktor.

So, he opens his door and motions her inside. Mila passes him and moves directly to one of the chairs situated just inside the room, in a small sitting area, slipping gracefully into it.

“What’s your question?” Yuuri asks as soon as he locks the door behind himself.

“Who are you hiding from?”

The question makes Yuuri freeze in his tracks, “I’m sorry?”

All traces of laughter are gone from Mila’s face as she leans forward, “It’s obvious that you’re powerful enough to have a position in a royal court, especially since mages are in short supply these days. Even if you don’t desire power or prestige or money, you could do more good setting up a shop in the capital city and healing people here, not out in a tiny village near the mountains. You’re hiding from someone, I’d like to know who.”

Letting out a soft sigh, Yuuri crosses the room to sit opposite Mila, “I don’t know. I don’t have a name, I don’t know what kingdom they’re from or where they live now. I just know they want me dead and have for a long time.”

He can see Mila file the information away for later and she nods, “Your turn.”

There are dozens of questions Yuuri wants to ask, significantly more than he’s willing to barter his own secrets with Mila for. He has questions about Ilya’s place in the court, about the antagonism between the mage and Viktor; he has questions about who exactly Christophe and Yurio are; he has questions about what Viktor has been doing since he arrived. The question that outweighs them all, however, hesitantly leaves his lips, “why did Viktor keep visiting me?”

She raises an eyebrow, “That’s a question that you should probably ask him.”

“I don’t see Viktor,” Yuuri admits, “I haven’t since I first came. Besides, you know the answer, don’t you?”

Mila drums her fingers on the arm of the chair, “I don’t know, but I suppose that makes us even. If you’re asking if he was trying to use your magic for political gain, he never told me as much, and he tends to run such plans by me. Viktor doesn’t like to talk about you while we’re in the castle, I get the sense he didn’t want people prying into you any more than we already were.” Mila shrugs, “I think he visited because it made him happy.”

Her answer hangs in the silence between them. Yuuri tries to keep his face neutral, to push the bloom of happiness that spread through his chest at the admission from being obvious. From the way that Mila’s gaze roves his face, he’s not sure he’s successful, but when he has himself under control he murmurs, “thanks. That’s all I wanted to ask.”

Getting to her feet, Mila says, “The deal remains. If you ever want to talk, just ask a runner to send me a message.”

“Right, I will.”

She gives him a smile, this one melting the sharp calculation that filled her gaze the moment Yuuri asked for her title, “For what it’s worth, and for all we don’t know much about you, I’m glad you agreed to help her majesty. She’s a good woman and a great queen.”

The door closes behind Mila with a resounding thud, and Yuuri has all of five minutes to try and digest the conversations before someone is knocking, “Master Healer, your presence has been requested in Her Majesty’s chambers!”

Ignoring the protest from his exhausted body, Yuuri pushes himself to his feet—it’s time to get back to work.

 

* * *

 

Holding up the pendant around his neck for review, Yuuri strains to hear past the thick doors that lead to the queen’s sitting room, frowning at what sounds like a conversation being held just past the door. After seeing the initial mess of courtiers in her chambers, Yuuri laid a blanket ban on all visitors without the express permission of the queen, and he opens the door, prepared to tell whoever is waiting inside to come back when the queen is feeling better.

He comes to a halt just inside the room, eyes wide as he takes in the sight before him. The queen is settled in a chair, a blanket draped over the lower half of her body but looking for all the world like she’s merely fighting off a mild cold. It’s quite the contrast from how she looked during his last visit, just a few hours prior. Standing across from her is Viktor, arms crossed over his chest and a concerned frown on his face.

“Ah, here you are Yuuri. If you could tell my mother hen that sitting up will not kill me, it would be most appreciated.”

The queen’s comment has Viktor turning to face the door, and he manages to give Yuuri a strained smile, “Could you tell my mother that resting is the best way for her to recover?”

Yuuri is staring.

He knows that he’s staring, but he can’t pull his gaze away from Viktor. For the first time he’s seeing Crown Prince Nikiforov in all of his glory—not wearing nondescript colors that can mask his status or a cloak covering his court clothes. Viktor’s wearing garments in a marvelous deep green, golden embroideries mimicking growing vines that travel up his trousers and continue their spiraling along his arms. The high collar is stiff, slanting just enough to offset the cut of Viktor’s jaw as if the overcoat was made for his wear (because it probably was). Unlike all the other times Yuuri’s seen him, Viktor’s hair is styled away from his face, a golden circlet resting above his brows. Gold glints from rings at his fingers, catching the light as he drums them against his hips, and a silver pendant that Yuuri assumes is some mark of his status is displayed proudly on his chest.

The silence stretches on, becoming uncomfortable as Yuuri’s brain fights between the way Viktor’s speech is casual (just as it was when they met in Yuuri’s village) and his entire appearance is anything but. The smile fades from Viktor’s face, his frown deepening as he takes a step forward, “Are you okay, Yuuri?”

Yuuri opens his mouth to reply and closes it rapidly, not sure what will come out if he answers now, because the honest answer— _no, I’m in shock because you really are a crown prince and I’m trying to come to terms with the vast difference in our social statuses_ —would only make the frown deepen more, and Yuuri decided that he hates seeing Viktor frown, does not want to be the cause of the unhappy expression that seems to drag Viktor’s entire presence down.

Ice blue eyes are studying Yuuri thoughtfully, and he flicks his gaze to the queen, silently pleading for help. Nothing on her face gives away that she recognizes the plea, but she clears her throat, “He’s probably tired, Vitya, this generally his time to rest.”

The name strikes a chord in Yuuri’s memory, tugging him from his self-doubt as he tries to place it. He vaguely remembers the queen using it when he first arrived, softly murmuring to her son, but Yuuri’s heard it before.

Viktor turns back to face his mother, voice thick with exasperation, “If you would stay in your bed, he could still be resting.”

“If you could trust my judgment he could still be resting regardless of what I am doing.” Isidora argues, brow arched, “the heavens know I managed to handle myself before you were born.”

“This is a little different than a cold,” Viktor counters, “and I’ve been told more than once that you were less stubborn before you ascended the throne.”

She snorts, the noise sounding completely out of place from such a dignified woman, “When it comes to our kingdom's secrets Mikhail wouldn’t tell a soul, but of course he’ll regale my son with stories of my adolescence.”

Their bickering reminds Yuuri of the arguments he has with Minako, when the older woman is trying to hard to shelter him from a world he’s already seen the worst of. It’s that comparison that shakes Yuuri from his stupor and has him moving further into the room, pulling the familiar quartz from his bag and offering it to the queen.

“If you wouldn’t mind?” he asks, cutting in before Viktor can retort.

Isidora reaches for the quartz, waiting for Yuuri to brace her arm before attempting to pick it from his grasp. His magic flows from his fingers into her body, racing along her veins in a path that is almost instinctual from how often Yuuri has performed this particular trick over the last two days.

When the quartz glows, it gives off a white light.

“What does that mean?” Viktor asks, voice carefully managed as if he’s trying not to appear hopeful.

This time, Isidora doesn’t reply, but the smile curling onto her lips tells Yuuri that she knows what this color means just as well as he does.

He takes the quartz from her and places it in his bag, turning to give Viktor a smile on his own, “It means she’ll recover.”

Viktor beams at him, the wide, vibrant expression that Yuuri grew used to seeing whenever Viktor came to visit. It only stays on his face for a moment before he’s rounding on his mother, “But there’s no possible way you could have known that, mother, you should have waited in bed for Yuuri to check on you.”

Isidora laughs, it’s a bright, musical sound that has Viktor’s stern face faltering even before she replies, “Very well, I’ll yield for now.” Her attention shifts back to Yuuri, “we’re hosting a banquet for Prince Chulanont, the day after next, to celebrate before he leaves to return to his kingdom. Will I be well enough to attend?”

Yuuri brushes the back of his hand against her forehead, checking her temperature as he considers the question. “I think so. The presence of the toxins in your body was responsible for slowing down your body’s natural recovery. If we flush the rest of it from your system with a lot of waters and teas, you should be fine by then.”

“Would you mind watching my recovery? I have an overzealous son who might try to keep me from the banquet if you aren’t here to tell him I am well.”

From the side of his gaze, Yuuri can see Viktor roll his eyes, and he bites back a slight laugh, “I can stay until then.”

 

* * *

 

_Visitors are rare in Serenity._

_Yuuri doesn't really know why, he just knows that's a fact. When new people come to the village, they always come to stay; when people leave the village, they're saying goodbye for good. The only exception is for a small troupe of traveling players, but only because that troupe is full of minor mages who were born in the village. You either live in Serenity, or you don't—visiting just isn't something that happens._

_Except, it's happening right now._

_No one will tell Yuuri why they're having visitors. Only that the visitors are arriving soon and that he has to be on his best behavior, which means no using his magic for anything less than an emergency and dressing in stiff clothes and, evidently, entertaining one of the foreigners._

_The last point is one of contention: "Why can't Mari keep them busy?"_

_His sister sticks her tongue out at him from across the table as their mother says, "Mari will be in meetings with me. One day she will be chief and she needs to start learning her duties. Would you rather sit in the meetings with us?"_

_Yuuri huffs, "N."_

_There's a gentle pat on his head as his father adds, "The young man is only a few years older than you, Yuu-kun; maybe you can make a new friend."_

_"Does he know magic?"_

_"No." That's his mother, kneeling on the floor to join them for breakfast._

_"Why are they coming?"_

_"Eat your breakfast, they'll be here soon."_

_'Soon' turned out to be mere seconds after Yuuri helped his father clear the table. A member of the village patrol arrived at their door, face set in a grim line that gave Yuuri the impression that this wasn't really a visit centered around forging friendships._

_Regardless, he finds himself standing in the village center with his family five minutes later, watching a group of riders walk through the village. It appears like every person who lives in Serenity is watching the visitors' approach, murmuring to each other with varying degrees of excitement._

_There's six of them, only one sparkles with purple in Yuuri's vision (dimmed by the glasses spelled by his mother to prevent distractions during their lessons). The riders stop once they're in speaking distance and the woman at the head of the company dismounts nimbly, landing with barely a sound. She murmurs something in a foreign language to the others, and three more dismount, following her across the distance to stand opposite Yuuri and his family._

_Up close, the woman is striking. Her silver hair is pulled from her face and braided so it falls down her back—Yuuri thinks he can see the glint of silver spikes weaved through her locks and he vows to ask his father about it later. Like five of the riders, she wears armor—gold-washed chain-mail—and a sword is clipped to her waist._

_"Queen Isidora, welcome to Serenity." It's always a little odd to hear the solemn tone of his mother's voice when she deals with business. She speaks in Traveler, the common language used by merchants and players, which Yuuri still has trouble understanding._

_He picks out a name that he assumes belongs to the woman, who inclines her head slightly, "Thank you for allowing my visit, Magic Keeper. May I introduce my son, Viktor Nikiforov."_

_The shortest of the visitors steps forward, and Yuuri realizes that this one is a boy, his stern expression making him look older than Mari. Like Isidora, his silver hair is braided down his back. His armor is silver, his sword gleaming (clearly newer than the others). He bows to the group, "I am honored to be here."_

_"Likewise, I'd like to introduce my son, Katsuki Yuuri."_

_Yuuri glances up at the sound of his name, looking a question at his mother, who gives him a slight nod of approval, before he steps forward. Making eye contact with the foreign boy, Yuuri slowly enunciates his words (frowning in concentration),  "Do you want to see the village?"_

_The boy looks a question at Isidora, who smiles in response, "Go on, Vitya. Have fun."_

_When he looks back at Yuuri, a beaming grin spreads across his face that makes him look much younger, closer to Yuuri's age, and he nods enthusiastically. It has an answering grin tugging in Yuuri's face and he closes the distance between them, grabs the boy's wrist, and tugs him off further into the village with a wave goodbye at his family._

_When they're out of earshot, Yuuri glances up into clear blue eyes, "Your name is Vitya?"_

_A slight frown crosses the boy's face, before it vanishes behind another smile that somehow doesn't feel as honest as the last, "You can call me Vitya. Your name is Katsuki?"_

_Yuuri tilts his head, wondering how to explain in the language they share, "Yes, but no. It's my whole family's name."_

_This time, the frown stays on Vitya's face, "I don't understand."_

_Coming to a stop, Yuuri turns to face Vitya and sticks his hand out, "Call me Yuu."_

_Vitya clasps his hand and shakes it, looking a little relieved, "Nice to meet you, Yuu."_

_Now that the boring business was out of the way, Yuuri tugs on Vitya's wrist again, "Minako-sensei is in town. Let's go say hi!"_

Yuuri blinks his eyes open, stomach fluttering with a mixture of emotions he can't name.

For mages, dreams are never without meaning. They're either memories or visions or some mixture of the two, and Yuuri has gone out of his way to avoid all of the above. His exhaustion from nursing the queen back to health must be why he slept soundly enough to dream at all.

He lifts his right hand, staring at his palm curiously, imagining the feeling of his fingers clasped around Viktor's wrist so many years ago. Pieces of the puzzle Yuuri has been fiddling with since his last visit to his dreamscape fall into place with the revelation that he had met Viktor before: a memory blocked out as Yuuri tried not to dwell on his past and time eroded the details of his childhood.

Yuuri wishes he was back in his cottage, where he could walk five minutes down the road to Minako's and deluge her with questions. He can faintly remember introducing Viktor to her, excited to show the visitor something fun, but for some reason they didn't stay long. There was no way for Minako to know Viktor was the young boy Yuuri introduced as 'Vitya', but her memories of the encounter are doubtless sharper than Yuuri's vague recollections.

He wonders how much of the visit Viktor remembers. Given that Yuuri's job had been to keep Viktor entertained, the memories not altered by his mother's spell are probably slim.

Outside, the temple clock chimes the hour, and Yuuri sighs, shoving the thoughts away for later consideration as he rolls out of bed and gets dressed. Just as he has for the last few days, he picks up his kit and leaves his room, heading for the royal chambers.

The guards wave him through without pause and Yuuri smiles at the queen, who is already up and eating breakfast in her sitting room.

"Good morning, Yuuri," she says, gracing him with a smile of her own, "are you hungry?"

Yuuri hoists his kit a bit higher, "I would prefer to check on your recovery first, if that's alright. How are you feeling?"

"Much better, almost brand new," she replies, smile widening, "I dare say I'll be able to go back to my duties soon."

He hums, acknowledging the response as he checks her fever, pleased to note it seems to be gone, before asking her a few more questions about her specific symptoms.

Behind him, he hears the door open, and Viktor asks, "Do we have a verdict?"

Stepping back with a satisfied nod, Yuuri says, "She can attend the banquet. I expect she'll be fully recovered in less than a week."

Closing his mage kit, Yuuri turns and nearly trips over a large poodle. Stumbling sideways to avoid hurting the dog, Yuuri loses his balance and topples right into steady arms, landing against Viktor's chest. He can feel Viktor's laughter, "Sorry, she has a unique talent for doing that."

Aware that his cheeks are flaming, Yuuri rapidly pushes himself upright, "It's fine. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

There's a genuine smile on Viktor's face, and it feels like it's the first time Yuuri has seen it since Viktor appeared on his doorstep in the middle of the night, only four days prior. Blue eyes twinkle down at him, and Yuuri's positive his flushing face gets redder.

Dropping Viktor's gaze, he kneels so he's level with the poodle, reaching out to scratch behind her ears. He's heard more than a few stories about Viktor's dog, so he guesses, "Is this Makkachin?"

"You remember her name?" Even without looking up, Yuuri can picture the way Viktor's jaw drops when he's pleasantly surprised.

"Of course I remember her name," Yuuri replies with a grin as Makkachin's tail wags, mimicking the excitement in her owner's voice, "she's only the best dog in the world. Isn't that right, Makkachin?"

Makkachin barks softly and presses upwards, licking Yuuri's cheek. Yuuri laughs, leaning back so he's slightly out of reach. He hears a soft 'wow' and glances up, curious. Viktor is staring down at them, a hand clutching the fabric over his chest, an expression on his face that Yuuri can only call awe.

Isidora clears her throat, and Yuuri's head whips over to look at the queen, who is hiding a bemused smile behind her cup, "I believe you have a council meeting this morning, Viktor, do you not?"

"Oh...right," Viktor sounds slightly dazed, and Yuuri reluctantly gets to his feet, patting Makkachin on the head as he glances between mother and son, trying to identify the odd mood in the room, "I'll, uh...I guess we should be going." He turns to Yuuri, "will you be attending the banquet?"

Yuuri opens his mouth to say he's not sure, and is beat to the punch by Isidora. "I should hope so, otherwise I placed the rush order to the seamstress for nothing."

"Rush order?" Yuuri repeats, eyes widening.

Isidora gestures toward the table, and Yuuri finally notices a package sitting near the corner, tied with silk ribbon, "It should suit you quite well."

"Great! I'll see you later, Yuuri!" Viktor says, before whistling for Makkachin, "don't let my mother bully you into letting her work today."

He's gone before Yuuri can so much as protest his presence at the banquet. When the door closes behind Viktor and Makkachin, Yuuri helplessly turns back to the queen, "Thank you for the gift, your majesty, but I'm not sure I'm suited for such an event."

Isidora's smile is understanding, "It's a castle-wide celebration, you'll blend into the crowd. I have no plans to introduce you to court if you have no intention of staying with us. You'll be seated near a side door, so you can leave at any time."

The thought she put into it, especially considering how sick she's been, is touching and Yuuri swallows harshly before saying, "Alright. I'll attend."

"Wonderful. I will see you later tonight, Yuuri."

Picking up the package from the corner of the table, Yuuri dips into a hasty bow and leaves the royal chambers. He clutches it to his chest as he makes his way back to his room, as if afraid that someone would see it and snatch the gift from his hands.

When he reaches his room, Yuuri sets the package on his bed, hesitating before he pulls at the ends of the ribbon so it falls away. The wrapping is pulled out of the way just as easily, and Yuuri is left to stare at the queen's gift.

Trembling hands lift the deep blue overcoat, holding it up so the coat unfolds. The fabric is impossibly soft to the touch, thick enough to keep Yuuri warm as the short Kiev summer prepares to melt into winter. Silver embroideries are worked all the way around the edge of the coat, trimming the opening in front as well as both sleeves and the collar. As Yuuri runs his gaze along the careful stitches, he picks out constellations in the midst of the stars that seem to twinkle in silver, bright against the dark fabric. It's the work of a master seamstress, and Yuuri can't even imagine how much the coat cost on its own, let alone the well-made shirt and trousers that lay underneath—pitch black like the night sky.

Carefully, he lays all three pieces on the bed, wondering just when Isidora had put in the order for such a thing. Running his fingers along the embroideries, Yuuri can't shake the feeling that his presence at the banquet is less of a thank you for his work, and more the queen attempting to sway him into accepting her offer to become the next royal mage.

He wonders if he'll get to keep the coat when he eventually declines the offer.

 

* * *

 

Finding his way to the banquet hall turns out to be simpler than Yuuri anticipated. The mass of other attendees that fill the palace corridors, all moving in one direction, sweeps him up as soon as he steps outside of the quiet hall where his room is situated. Around him, Yuuri can pick out nobles and scholars as well as people dressed more simply, possibly merchants invited from the city or other palace workers.

When they step into the massive hall, the crowd splits, people making their way to the various long tables that stretch from the doors all the way up to the dais with sure feet. Yuuri hesitates, not sure where he fits into this sea of people.

"Oi, storyteller." Yuuri glances over at the call, and tries not to look too relieved when he meets Yurio's glare, "I was told to show you to your seat."

"My seat?" Yuuri repeats, eyes flicking nervously to the dais.

Yurio snorts, "Don't get ahead of yourself, only the royals and the guests of honor sit up there. You're over here, with some of the palace doctors."

"Where do you sit?"  Yuuri asks, as he follows Yurio through the crowd, struggling to keep pace as the younger man effortlessly weaves around rushing servants.

"Beneath the dais, since I'm Viktor's glorified errand boy," is the terse response, "when I'm finally knighted I'll finally get some respect around here."

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. Even as they walk, he can see servants inclining their heads respectfully at Yurio, and he wonders what more respect the younger man is looking for. Yurio stops at a table by the side of the hall, near a door (just as the queen promised), "Try not to look like too much of an idiot."

"Thanks, Yurio."

He receives another withering glare, "That's not my name."

Yurio turns on his heel and stalks up the rows of tables without waiting for a reply. Yuuri follows Yurio's progress toward the dais until the squire slides into a seat at a table by the foot of the small flight of stairs that leads to the dais. Curious, Yuuri glances up, picking out Phichit among those at the head table, chatting animatedly to some lord seated next to him. From his position, halfway down the hall, Yuuri can imagine the exuberant tone of voice that matches the way Phichit's hands move as he talks.

The queen had not exaggerated when she said Yuuri would blend into the crowd. Hardly anyone pays him a second glance as they find their seats. Even so, he can't shake the feeling that he's being watched, and Yuuri's gaze slides from Phichit to lock onto blue.

Viktor is seated directly to the right of the throne, adorned with all the finery that befits his station. His head is tilted slightly to the side, quirked in the direction of the person seated to his right and nodding occasionally to indicate he's listening. Despite the fact that they’re separated by more than a hundred people, and several meters, Yuuri feels as if all of Viktor's attention is on him.

As he watches, Viktor's lips quirk in a slight smile, and his gaze runs from Yuuri's hair (which he had carefully slicked back so it was out of his face) to study the magnificent clothes the queen had given to Yuuri. The coat feels sweltering under Viktor's scrutiny, but a savage rush of pride sweeps through him at the knowledge that, out of the hundreds of people in this room, Viktor's eyes are on him—nameless, unimportant, village healer that he is.

The sound of a herald's staff striking the floor shatters the moment, and Yuuri drops into his seat as the queen stands and silence falls over the hall.

From where he sits, Yuuri never would have known the queen was sick for so much as a day, let alone over two weeks. She appears as an unshakable pillar, head held high even though Yuuri imagines the weight of the crown feels heavier than usual since her body is still recovering.

"We wish to thank you all for coming to celebrate with us," she begins, words echoing around the hall, reaching each corner of the room (the curved walls helping to amplify her voice). "Ayutthaya and Kiev have been allies for dozens of generations, and we are sure our ancestors are looking down upon us with a smile to see that friendship growing stronger with each passing year." Isidora turns slightly, nodding to Phichit who is seated at her left-hand, "we celebrate the continued strength of the Chulanont lineage, and you, Prince Chulanont, as you a credit to your name and your people."

Yuuri smiles softly at the words of praise, and the cheers that sound from the dining hall around him. Phichit raises his hand to acknowledge the applause, face solemn even though Yuuri can picture the excitement with which Phichit will recount the moment just hours later to Celestino in private.

Isidora waits for the cheers to fade before reaching for the gold chalice resting in front of her, and holding it aloft, "We ask that you drink your fill and eat until you cannot stomach anymore; for the continued friendship kindled during Prince Chulanont's stay will foster the strength of our home. To Ayutthaya, and to Kiev."

More cheers rise up from the crowd, the thunderous applause filling the hall as Isidora lifts the goblet to her lips to take the first sip of the feast.

A chill runs down Yuuri’s spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and a flash of red cracks through the window like a bolt of lightning. Yuuri gets to his feet as the goblet slips through the queen’s hand. He’s pushing away from the table before the sound of the chalice striking the stone floor can so much as echo back through the dining hall. He’s halfway to the dais by the time Viktor has rushed to kneel at his mother’s side, and Yuuri’s barely up the first step when he realizes he’s too late.

Guards are moving to intercept Yuuri, and he tugs at the chain around his neck, holding up the pendant that has them immediately falling aside and letting him through.

Viktor is snapping orders, cradling his mother in his arms as servants rush around, getting supplies that will do them no good. The harsh set of Viktor’s jaw is all that betrays his concern, but when Yuuri kneels next to the queen, he hears a sigh of relief. It’s a knife to the gut to realize how much hope his presence brings, but Yuuri ignores it for the moment and reaches for the queen’s neck, futilely searching for a pulse.

“We need to get her out of the dining hall,” Yuuri murmurs.

“Is she okay to be moved?”

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Yuuri forces himself to meet Viktor’s gaze, to look into the tide of fear, concern, confusion. He’s told Viktor a lot of lies, has told lies to others in similar situations, but he can’t bring himself to form the reassuring words he knows the other man is looking for, “We can’t do this here.”

Blue eyes widen just a fraction, Viktor’s face loses just a bit more color, but his voice doesn’t waver when he pitches it louder, calling for guards to carry his mother. When they both get to their feet, his back is straight, all emotions save for polite kindness are gone from his face. A stranger turns from Yuuri to smile at Phichit in apology, “It seems she might have overdone herself today, but there’s no reason for the festivities to stop. If you’ll excuse us? I’ll be back shortly.”

Phichit’s gaze flicks at Yuuri, just for a split-second, long enough for Yuuri to give an almost imperceptible nod of his head to indicate he’ll be fine, before Phichit gives Viktor reassuring smile, “Please, take all the time you need, her health is more important.”

The double doors at the main entrance of the hall slam shut. Yuuri sees Viktor and Phichit’s heads snap to look at the door, but his gaze is drawn to the nearby window, stained glass filtering down on the dais with a depiction of Kiev’s patron goddess. Another chill runs down his spine and Yuuri tugs off his glasses just in time to see a cloud of red float through the window, a noxious cloud invisible to all other eyes in the dining room.

“Phichit, get down.”

Viktor glances back at Yuuri, frowning at the order that leaves Yuuri’s lips, “How do you-”

“Be quiet,” Yuuri snaps, too focused on the magic spreading through the hall like smoke—trying to analyze it before the spell activates, wondering if he has enough time to mask any working he could do in counter—to bother with courtly manners, much less regular ones.

Thankfully, Viktor frowns but presses his lips together; seemingly willing to wait Yuuri out.

As Yuuri watches the magic, it spreads until the cloud is blanketing the entire hall, a handful of tendrils dropping toward the unsuspecting revelers. One reaches for Viktor, but Yuuri dismisses it, already feeling the tingling running through his body as the protection charm around Viktor's neck reacts to an impending threat: the charm will keep Viktor safe.

Another tendril reaches for a burly man also seated at the dais, and Yuuri draws on his magic, tugging it out of his gut to pool around his hands, poised for action.

He's unprepared for how quickly, how _savagely_ , the mystery spell activates. Red tendrils dive down into the man's mouth and he immediately collapses. By the time Yuuri's own magic is leaving his fingers in a rush of power the man's heart has already stopped.

Screams tear through the dining hall as the magic moves rapidly now, tendrils detaching from the smoke with too much frequently, with too much speed, for Yuuri to do more than throw a shield up around his immediate area (protecting Phichit and Celestino) before chaos erupts. Yuuri hasn't spent much time in the palace, doesn't pay much attention to Kievan politics, but it's obvious that the spell is targeted, going after men and women with influence in the court.

Dimly, he's aware of Christophe reaching the dais, tugging on Viktor's arm, pulling Viktor out of the dining room and out of harm's way. Celestino is doing the same to Phichit, and Yuuri waves his friend off with barely more than a glance in response to the shout of his name. He sees vibrant red hair and recognizes Mila as she sprints up the dais and kneels by the burly man Yuuri failed to save, desperately shaking him.

Through it all, Yuuri stands rock still, desperately searching for the source of the spell. Despite knowing he doesn’t have the skill to save everyone, the sounds of bodies dropping to the floor cut deep into his heart, and Yuuri’s nails dig into his palms so he can concentrate. The best he can do without drawing too much attention to himself is to cut the spell off with the caster; if he finds the mage responsible, he can bring the slaughter to a halt.

A tendril drops from the ceiling, hurtling at Yurio, and Yuuri abandons his tight grip on his control. Gold flares from his feet, and even though the humans around him can't See anything, they scramble backward from Yuuri, sensing the magnitude of his power as it cracks through the room to intercept the tendril in an explosion of light visible to even the most untrained eyes.

"Show yourself!" Yuuri calls, hands clenched in fists at his side, eyes narrowed as he scans the hall.

The attack stops. All of the red freezes where it floats, time seems to come to a standstill as silence falls over the dining hall, all eyes fixed on Yuuri. There's a breath where he thinks the caster has retreated before Yuuri feels the same malicious intent that swamped him so many weeks ago, alone in the forest with Viktor, rush towards him in a wave.

_"I thought I told you to stay out of it, young Katsuki."_

The voice rides on the wave of hatred and murder, surrounding Yuuri without warning, forcing him to his knees with its intensity. It echoes in his skull, harsh and grated, reminiscent of a wolf's growl and the crash of a thunderstorm all at once.

A gust of wind blasts the dining hall doors open, knocking one off its hinge, scattering the cloud of magic that hangs over the room, giving Yuuri time to breathe and shelter his mind from the unknown mage.

Irritation filters through the disembodied conscious, _"This could have ended here if it weren't for your meddling. Remember that when blood is spilled."_

In a blink, the red magic vanishes, gone from the hall with barely more than a trace. Yuuri drops his head, letting it hang between his hands as he tries to hold himself together, aware that breaking down now will only do him more harm than good. It's a struggle to take even breaths, his entire body is trembling.

A harsh grip on his forearm tugs Yuuri to his feet, and he blinks, staring up the length of steel presented at his throat to meet the eyes of a palace guard, "Undo your spell, witch."

Yuuri opens his mouth to answer, and no sound comes out, his fear locking his words in his throat.

"I'll not ask a second time," the guard snarls, sword point pressing against Yuuri's throat, breaking skin.

"Put your sword down!" the command cracks through the room like a whip, and both Yuuri and the guard glance over to the speaker.

Yurio stalks through the rows of tables. Despite his pale face and the slight quiver in his hands, green eyes are unwavering as he stares down the guard. His strides are evenly paced, back straight, as he approaches them.

"This witch almost killed you, Squire Plisetsky. For all we know, he attacked the queen too."

The corner of Yurio's lip raises in a slight sneer, "If you hadn't been pissing yourself in your fear, you might have noticed that he just saved my life. Furthermore, this _mage_ is here at the personal request of the crown prince and if you do not let him go this instant I'll see you stripped of your title and sent to the Northern border to cool off."

Objectively, Yuuri knows there's more sound in the dining room than his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Nurses and doctors rush in and out of the doors, moving to those attacked by the magic; he can see Ilya Romanov directing them in their movements off to the side. But in his little bubble, all Yuuri can focus on is the uneven pattern of his ragged breathing and his pounding heart as Yurio and the guard stare off.

Eventually, the sword is drawn away from Yuuri's throat, and the guard sheaths it, "I pray your judgment is wise, my lord."

"Make yourself useful and get those well enough to move out of here. They're making it difficult to get care to those who need it." Yurio orders.

The guard gives Yurio a tight salute before turning and descending the dais. Yuuri watches him go, shakily bringing a hand up to his throat, wincing when he presses the small gash in his skin.

Green eyes snap to Yuuri, and Yurio opens his mouth. Whatever he planned to say, the young man evidently thinks better of it as his nose crinkles in distaste before he turns in the direction where Viktor had been led, "Let's go. He'll want to talk to you, and you still need to check on the queen."

 

* * *

 

When they reach the queen's chambers, Viktor is pacing in the sitting room, rattling off a series of orders and instructions to no one in particular that everyone present immediately responds to. Maids and runners and guards come in and out of the sitting room in droves, barely avoiding stepping on each other in their haste to follow the prince's orders.

Yurio steps right into Viktor's path, chin jutting up dangerously in a challenge as he dares Viktor to snap at him. Instead of taking the dare, Viktor merely raises an eyebrow, waiting. A thumb is jabbed over Yurio's shoulder, "I brought your pet project."

For once, there's no real sting to the squire's words. If Yuuri didn't know better, he would say Yurio sounds exhausted, emotionally and physically drained from the events of the last twenty minutes. Viktor's gaze flicks over Yurio to meet Yuuri's, and he tilts his head in the direction of the bedroom.

They meet in front of the door, Viktor's hand resting on the knob. "She's already gone." Yuuri feels his heart break in two for the other man, but Viktor's voice is steady as he continues, "I need you to tell me if it was the poison or if it was whatever just attacked us in the dining hall."

There's no request in Viktor's words. It's an order, and Yuuri could give Viktor the answer right here: he would have vehemently protested the queen attending the banquet if he wasn't confident in her recovery, and he can still picture the single flash of red magic that preceded the larger attack on the hall. However, Yuuri simply nods and waits as Viktor pushes open the door.

"After you." Viktor murmurs, gaze fixed at a spot over Yuuri's shoulder, as if avoiding both the silent chamber and Yuuri at the same time.

Over the last week, Yuuri has grown familiar with the queen's bedchamber. It doesn't look any different today than it had in the past, but it feels wrong. Every other time Yuuri stepped inside, blue eyes would immediately pick him out from across the room, would watch his approach with a slight smile even if he could tell his composure was being carefully picked apart and measured.

Now, he enters without the weight of the queen's scrutiny, and he regrets every time he wished to do this very thing.

Isidora is settled on her bed, the duvet pulled up to her chest, her hands clasped together and resting against her chest. When Yuuri steps up to his usual spot at her bedside, he's immediately struck by how young she looks. Her face is porcelain, only slight wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and mouth indicate she had ever been touched by time, more noticeable now that the color is gone from her cheeks.

Murmuring an apology for disrupting her peace, Yuuri reaches out and rests his hand on her forehead, letting his eyes flutter shut as he calls on his magic. It crackles under his skin—still active from the extensive use in the dining hall—races down his arm and dives into the queen's body.

He doesn't learn anything new.

The queen was recovering rapidly from her illness, would have lived a long life if it weren't for today's attack.

Whoever was behind it is a Great Mage. Yuuri can barely find a trace of the spell that stopped Isidora's heart despite it being less than an hour since the attack occurred. In fact, the only traces Yuuri can find are hints of malice, strong enough to linger even when the spell had done its work.

Pulling his hand back, Yuuri whispers into the room: reciting a prayer for the dead in his native language before sweeping the queen a low bow.

When Yuuri straightens, he turns to face Viktor, who hasn't stepped more than a foot into the room.

"Well?"

"As I announced earlier, she would have made a full recovery from the poison. What killed her was the attack in the hall."

"Magic?"

"Yes."

Viktor lets out long exhale, his breath slightly shaky, and gives a firm nod, "I see."

Without another word, he turns on his heel and strides out of the room. Surprised by Viktor's sudden movements, Yuuri scrambles to follow after him as Viktor dismisses all the servants in the room and calls for the guards stationed outside.

"Bring Lord Romanov here. Now."

The guards bow and rush out of the room, leaving Yuuri flabbergasted. Thankfully, he isn't the only one confused because Yurio asks, "What's going on?"

Viktor doesn't answer.

Instead, he resumes his pacing. The tense line of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw, set Yuuri on edge. As a healer, Yuuri’s spent more than his fair share of time around people in the last stages of their lives, has been charged with being the bearer of bad news to dozens upon dozens of families and friends. The rage alight under Viktor's skin, flashing in blue eyes, is more intense than Yuuri has ever witnessed before.

Minutes pass by slowly as they wait for the guards to return with the royal mage.

The door opens, and Lord Romanov sweeps inside, casting a dry look over his shoulder at his escort before the doors close behind him. The mage turns to study the room, takes in Yuuri and Yurio's presence with only the slightest quirk of an eyebrow before bowing to Viktor, "How can I be of assistance, Your Highness?"

Viktor stops pacing, standing still where he stands, "Queen Isidora is dead."

From his position, off to the side of the room, Yuuri can see the shock that crosses Ilya's features before he composes himself again and straightens from his bow, "May her soul find peace in the worlds beyond."

When Viktor turns to study the mage, the ice on his face makes Yuuri's breath catch in his throat. "She fell victim to a magical attack. Considering that the only two mages in the castle are standing in this room, how do you suppose that happened, my lord?"

Black eyes narrow at the implication, "If you think me a murderer, you are mistaken. With all due respect, I would have preferred to serve under Queen Isidora until my death."

"That can be arranged."

Despite the calm on the royal mage's face, his magic flares at the threat, noticeable to Yuuri alone and reigned in with a speed that speaks to iron-clad self-restraint.

"If there are two mages in this room, why am I the only one considered traitor?" Romanov challenges.

"If Yuuri wanted the queen dead, he had ample time to kill her. Instead, he nursed her back to health from an illness in the span of a week that you could not, or would not, identify in twice that time." Viktor snaps back, "and unlike you, who have made your political ambitions well known, Yuuri has no desire for power."

Romanov's lip raises in a sneer, "Since you trust his council so highly, why not ask this supposed mage if he thinks me suspect?"

Viktor whirls to face Yuuri, "Well?"

"Uh-" Yuuri's throat is dry, the sudden attention on him somehow tenser than it was in the dining hall, somehow more unsettling than the prick of a blade against his neck. Clearing his throat, he tries again, "I do not believe Lord Romanov is the source of the attack."

Black eyes widen and Viktor rocks back onto the heels of his feet, both men in complete shock.

Taking advantage of their reaction, Yurio pipes up from the back of the room, sounding bored despite the leading nature of his question, "What makes you say that, storyteller?"

"All mages have a specific magical signature; essentially, their spells all take on the unique feeling of the caster. While it is possible to mask a signature, the mage behind the queen's death is so powerful that he did not feel the need to hide his signature." Yuuri explains, starting softly and voice slowly getting louder as he spoke: confident in his words, "I have sensed this mage before, in the corpse of the wolf, but it does not match Lord Romanov's signature."

Yuuri hesitates, before adding, "Meaning no disrespect to you, Lord Romanov, but you are not powerful enough to have pulled off that attack."

Ilya frowns thoughtfully, studying Yuuri without a hint of disdain in his expression.

After a long silence, Viktor says, "You are on house arrest until further notice while an investigation is conducted, Lord Romanov. You do not leave this palace. Understood?"

"Perfectly." Romanov bows again, "do you require anything else from me, Your Majesty?"

"You're all dismissed."

The hard tone in Viktor's voice makes Yuuri pause, even as Romanov immediately turns to make his way toward the door. After the events of the last hour, Yuuri firmly believes that the last thing Viktor should be is alone. He glances past Viktor to meet green eyes, noting that Yurio looks just as surprised by the dismissal as Yuuri feels.

"Old man, shouldn't you think about-" Yurio starts, voice dry even as he steps forward.

"I said you were dismissed, Squire Plisetsky," Viktor cuts across him, moving toward the windows on the far side of the room, "if I require your council, I will send for you."

Yurio scowls, but doesn't argue; when he leaves the chamber it's with heavy footsteps, stomping his way out the room. Yuuri still doesn't move. He eyes the stiff line of Viktor's back, the way Viktor's hands are clenched together, knuckles pale, and Yuuri takes a deliberate breath, steeling himself for a rejection as harsh as Yurio's.

"Viktor?"

There's no response, but Yuuri supposes it's better than getting kicked out, so he tries again.

"I, uh," Yuuri silently curses himself. This is the part of his job that he has always struggled with—finding words of comfort to say to grieving loved ones. In his experience, no words said can soothe the ache of sudden loss, but words can make it worse. Minako knew how to tread that line, without her, Yuuri would not have lived to meet the man trying to push back his grief, silhouette outlined by moonlight.

Clearing his throat, Yuuri steels himself to try again but is beat to the punch by a soft question.

"Did she suffer?"

"Pardon?"

"While she was sick from the poison, she wouldn't tell me as much but I could tell she was in pain. Withering away like that, it's not the way she wanted to go. Whatever happened at the banquet, did she suffer when she passed? I need to know, Yuuri."

Taking a few tentative steps forward, Yuuri draws level with Viktor, keeping his own attention on the garden sprawled before them as he answers, "No. It was almost instantaneous; she probably didn't even realize what was happening."

Viktor lets out a shaky breath, "good."

They stand in silence, looking out over the garden but neither man really seeing it, lost in their thoughts, in the weight of Isidora's death, until Viktor speaks again, "It's not that I don't trust your judgment, Yuuri, but you don't know Romanov like I do. I know he's behind this."

Yuuri glances over, taking in the harsh glint in Viktor's gaze, how his eyes are dry despite the slight waver that has crept into his voice. Arguing the point now won't do Viktor any good, so Yuuri nods and picks out his words carefully, "I'm the newcomer here, so I probably don't know him as well. If you'd like, I can stay and help you investigate."

"I never wanted you to be trapped in this palace,” there’s an unspoken _‘like me’_ in the heaviness of Viktor’s words, “you've already done more than enough."

"I'm not offering to stay out of obligation, Viktor, I'm offering to stay because you're my friend and I want to help." Yuuri presses, shifting where he stands so he’s looking up at Viktor instead of out at the garden, "let me help you."

Viktor's eyes flutter shut and he swallows heavily. They're so close that Yuuri can see the trembles that are racking up Viktor's body and, subconsciously, he reaches out, brushing his fingers along the line of Viktor's cheekbone.

It's the stone that breaks the floodgates and a sob leaves Viktor's mouth before he clasps his hands over it, still trying to hold onto his royal persona. The sight is heartbreaking, and it’s a loneliness that Yuuri is intimately familiar with. Hesitation and uncertainty fade away in the face of Viktor’s obvious need, and Yuuri turns Viktor so the taller man is facing him, "you told me that you liked visiting my village because you could just be yourself. We're the only ones here, Viktor, you can let go."

Viktor's eyes fly open—bright with unshed tears—to meet Yuuri's gaze. He blinks once, and then twice, and then he lets go. His entire body shakes with sobs that are still too quiet, as if he’s trying to keep the guards outside the doors from hearing. Yuuri holds his arms open, a silent offering that Viktor immediately accepts by stepping into his embrace, hands coming around Yuuri’s body to cling at his back. Despite being taller than Yuuri, Viktor drops his forehead against Yuuri’s shoulder as he cries into the decadent fabric of the clothing Isidora gifted to Yuuri just that morning.

Biting his lip to keep from bursting into tears as well, Yuuri wraps his own arms around Viktor, one hand coming up to rest at the nape of Viktor’s neck and gently stroke his hair. He doesn’t speak, Yuuri knows that nothing he could say would make this moment hurt any less. He simply lets Viktor cry in privacy, with the unspoken promise of never mentioning it to another soul, until the sobs quiet into hiccups and there are no more tears to shed.

“I’m not ready.”

The comment is a soft mumble, spoken into the fabric of Yuuri’s tunic, and it takes Yuuri a moment to understand what Viktor means.

Yuuri stifles a gasp as he catches up to Viktor’s train of thought: Viktor is the king now.

The King of Kiev just cried himself into hiccups in Yuuri’s arms and Yuuri’s sure he only feels a fraction of how panicked Viktor must feel right now, but he still thinks he’s going to be sick. Rapidly reaching for any kind of reassurance he can offer, Yuuri says, “she told me that you were going to be a great king.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be this soon.”

Yuuri doesn’t have a response to that, but Viktor doesn’t seem to expect one because he slowly lifts his head from Yuuri’s shoulder. His eyes are still bright, now red from crying, but Viktor straightens to his full height, schooling his face back to the impassive mask that Yuuri associates with _Prince Nikiforov._

“Thank you, Yuuri,” he murmurs. “You should get some rest.”

There’s something definitive in Viktor’s tone that makes the comment sound less like a suggestion and more like a dismissal, and this time Yuuri doesn’t push back. He gives Viktor a small smile, “If you need to talk, I’m a lot closer now.”

The smile he gets in response is small, barely noticeable, and doesn’t reach Viktor’s gaze. As Yuuri turns and makes his way from the queen’s chambers, each step feels heavier than the last, as if his body is telling him not to walk away. But this is more than Yuuri ever bargained for, it’s treason and royal dynasties and mass murder, and Yuuri is just Yuuri. Even if he stays by Viktor’s side, he’s not sure what good he’d be able to do.

Queen Isidora’s request rises to the forefront of Yuuri’s mind as he makes the lonely walk from her chambers to his room: _“Lord Romanov cannot remain the royal mage while Viktor is king. I am asking you to consider the possibility of becoming the royal mage in his stead.”_

He wonders if she even realized the absurdity of what she was asking.

Yuuri doesn’t belong here.

 

* * *

 

Getting 'some rest' is easier said than done.

Yuuri tosses and turns all night, mind racing as he tries to wrap his head around everything that happened that day. He tries to place the voice of the mystery mage, tries to think past the mind-numbing fear that the mage's power induced in order to remember the cadence of the speaker, but it's impossible. He tries to reasonably guess where the spellcaster would have needed to be to strike with such precision and power, but Yuuri's lessons in such magical theory were cut short, and he's not sure any of the normal rules apply when dealing with a Great Mage.

When he gives up on trying to identify the culprit, Yuuri's mind turns to Viktor, to the unimaginably heavy burden that was just dropped on Viktor's shoulder, to the way his whole body had shook with sobs as he cried in Yuuri's arms. Yuuri wonders if Viktor is awake in his rooms, somewhere else in the palace, tossing and turning just like Yuuri. His only solace is the possibility that Makkachin is with Viktor, giving comfort that Viktor can't reject.

By the time sunlight begins to filter around the edges of the curtain, Yuuri’s long since given up on sleep. Instead, he sits in one of the chairs just feet from his bed, sipping his way through a pot of tea as he waits.

He's sure someone will come to his room sooner rather than later. Whether it's Viktor, needing to ask Yuuri more questions about the attack, or someone from Phichit's delegation to secret Yuuri to Phichit's room so they can talk. Someone will want something from Yuuri, will give him something to do other than to stew in his own uncertainty and sorrow.

The visitor comes a few hours after sunrise, rapping smartly on his door without announcing themselves. Yuuri puts down his teacup and swings open the door, not entirely surprised to be facing Mila. Her face is impassive as she steps around him and into his room, but there’s a weariness etched in her frame that reminds Yuuri of how he left Viktor.

Her eyes linger on the tea sitting on the table, "If I had known you were awake, I would have come earlier."

They're the words of someone who also spent the night unable to calm their stormy thoughts, and as Yuuri closes the door he asks, "Did you get any sleep?"

"I was busy."

He’s not sure he wants to know the answer to the question, but Yuuri forces himself to ask, “The man you went to during the attack, the one that collapsed first, is he...?”

“My father,” Mila replies, voice clipped, “he didn’t make it."

Yuuri thinks back to his hesitation to shield the man from the attack, to when he had been trying to understand the nature of the magic, overconfident in his abilities to react to the mystery spell, and drops her gaze, "I'm sorry."

"I'm actually here on business," her dismissal of the whole situation makes Yuuri's stomach churn. He wonders if anyone in this palace is given time for grief or if they're all forced to carry on in the name of their nobility, "you believe Romanov is innocent?"

Eyes flicking up to meet her gaze, Yuuri says, "I'm not sure if I can-"

Mila waves a hand, cutting him off, "With my father's death I'm the head of the Babichev house. This is now my job. Viktor told me what you said about Romanov's magic."

At that, Yuuri frowns, wondering if Viktor even tried to get sleep the previous night or if he threw himself headfirst into his duties, "Okay."

"I'm going to speak with Romanov, to see what I can glean of his innocence. I would like you to come with me. He'll be more likely to talk if he sees a sympathetic face."

Yuuri's frown deepens, "He didn't kill her."

Mila shrugs, "So you say, and I know you believe that. You'll forgive me if I want to determine the truth on my own rather than by your word."

There's a coolness to Mila's words that sends a flash of anger through Yuuri's body, and he locks his jaw to keep from snapping a retort: aware that no matter how calm she appears she is likely hurting from the death of her father. After taking a second to calm down, Yuuri nods, "Are we heading there now?"

"Yes, let's go."

Mila leads Yuuri out of his room and through the corridors. An eerie silence has settled over the castle, a dark cloud that seems to hang over everyone they pass. Everyone who speaks does so in a hushed tone, and Yuuri notices that almost every person in sight is wearing some degree of black clothing.

"Mila, does everyone know?" he murmurs.

"There hasn't been an announcement yet, but word travels fast in the palace." Mila turns down a private corridor, and Yuuri can pick out guards standing outside a door at the end of the hallway. "I wouldn't be surprised if the entire capital knows by sundown."

They come to a stop outside the door with the guards, who give Mila a salute.

"Has he had any visitors?" she asks.

"Just one," the response comes from the guard to the left, "but he hasn't asked to see anyone. Has hardly made a peep, actually."

Mila nods, glancing at Yuuri, "You knock. He'll be more willing to answer for you."

Yuuri steps up to the door and knocks three times, "Lord Romanov? It's Yuuri."

No one answers the door.

Yuuri knocks on the wood again, "Lord Romanov? I just want to speak with you."

There's silence, and Yuuri tilts his head, studying the doors anew. He lowers his glasses just enough to look over the tops of his frames and sighs softly at the sparkle of purple that greets him. He turns to face Mila, "He might have cast a silencing charm around his chambers.

With a slight huff Mila glances at the guard to Yuuri's left, "Open it."

"He hasn't left his chambers, my lady," the guard protests.

Mila glares at him, "That wasn't a request."

Strong hands guide Yuuri out of harm's way before the two guards ram against the door. Backing up, they rush at it again, slamming against the wood with their shoulders, and the doors fly open with a crash, splinters shooting into the room.

"By Maeve," the soft exclamation comes from the guard who spoke up.

Glancing around the fighters, Yuuri's feels his face drain of color.

Much like the queen's chambers, the royal mage was given a suite of rooms that opened with a sitting room. The small table near the center of the room holds a teapot and two cups of tea. Sprawled on the floor, halfway between the table and the doors, is Ilya Romanov. Blood pools around his body, a gruesome trail stretches behind him toward the dining area telling the story of how he dragged himself, looking for help. Even slumped over as he is, strength having failed him, his hand remains outstretched at the intruders, as if he had been reaching out in response to Yuuri's knocking.

Rushing around the guards, Yuuri stops next to Ilya, paying no mind to the slick as he kneels on the ground so he can search for the source of the bleeding. Behind him, he can hear Mila snapping orders, telling the guards to get reinforcements and medical supplies before she adds, "And send someone to tell His Majesty. He'll want to know."

"What about her?"

Hands gripping around the jagged gash in Ilya's gut, Yuuri glances up just long enough to realize a woman is still seated at the table, back facing the entrance. Long black hair falls over a simple green gown and, as he watches, she reaches out for a teacup with fingers coated in red.

"I'll handle her," Mila replies, "just go."

The heavy footsteps of the guards running to do as Mila ordered echo in the room, sounding harshly over Ilya's faint breath. Yuuri flicks his gaze to Mila, trying not to panic, "This wound is bad, it's a miracle he didn't lose his guts between here and the table."

"Just do what you can." She crosses the room, reaching over the back of the chair and picking up meat cleaver from the woman's lap. "He probably didn't see it coming. After all, no one would have expected you to take the law into your hands, would they, Zarya?"

"He killed her," the woman—Zarya—replies. Yuuri remembers hearing her name over the past week, occasionally mentioned by the queen or one of the nurses, and he glances back up, curious despite the desperate situation. "He killed her and he gets to stay in this beautiful room, in luxury, and given the courtesy of a proper trial."

Yuuri’s hands are trembling, an emotion coursing through his veins that’s a noxious mixture of fear, shock, and fury, “He didn’t kill the queen.”

Mila’s gaze flicks to Yuuri and she gives a harsh shake of her head in warning. Zarya shifts in her seat so she can meet Yuuri’s gaze, her eyes bright with tears, “He’s the only mage here! How can you say that?”

Behind them, footsteps sound again. Among the rush of the heavy patter of palace guards, heeled boots click on the stone floor, their pace even as someone sweeps into the room. Off to the Zarya’s side, Mila lowers into a slight bow. Yuuri’s kit is shoved into his frame of vision and he accepts it without dropping Zarya’s gaze: matching her glare second for second.

“Move him to a bed so our healer can look at him,” it’s only when he speaks that Yuuri realizes Viktor is the one who handed Yuuri his kit.

There’s a chorus of ‘yes, your majesty’ and Yuuri scrambles away from Ilya and to his feet so the guards can lift the mage from the floor. He hovers around them, occasionally making a comment about holding Ilya as steady as possible. Yuuri spares a glance back at Viktor, but Viktor’s attention is solely focused on Zarya—his brows are furrowed, a slightly pinched expression on his face that gives Yuuri the impression that he’s in pain, and Yuuri spares one more second to study the potential murderer, wondering who exactly she is, before devoting his focus to his newest charge.

Once in the bedroom, Yuuri banishes the guards, voice sharp with an unspoken threat that has all of the soldiers rushing to do as he says. When the door thuds shut, leaving him alone with Ilya, Yuuri steps up to the side of the bed, carefully resting his fingers around Ilya's wound. He gnaws on his bottom lip, considering and dismissing ideas rapidly. Even if he were to dig into the reserves of his magic (not yet fully restored after yesterday’s fiasco), there's a limit to what magic can do, and the wound is fatal.

He drags his eyes away from the wound up to Ilya's face to see black eyes regarding him wearily—the fire inside them, the fight that Ilya displayed when Viktor accused him of murder, gone.

"I'm sorry, Ilya, there isn't much I can do," Yuuri admits, "I should have forced him to understand you weren't a killer. Maybe we could have prevented this."

Ilya cocks an eyebrow, looking more bemused than a man on his deathbed had any right to be, and he reaches out, gripping Yuuri's wrist with surprising strength. "Come in."

It's a phrase Yuuri hasn't heard uttered in this context for over a decade, and he blinks down at Ilya, "Are you sure?"

"It's the only-" he cuts off in a weak coughing fit before forging on, "-the only way for us to talk. Come in."

Hands still shaking, Yuuri reaches out to press two fingers to the hollow of Ilya's throat, locking his gaze on black as he murmurs the call, "My soul to yours."

The world seems to freeze, suspending them in the moment as Ilya gives a rattling exhale before speaking the response, "Your mind to mine."

It feels as if Yuuri's feet leave the ground, like he's being sucked into the depths of Ilya's black stare as he drops away from the solemn chamber and into Ilya's dreamscape.

_He's inside a library: bookshelves stretch for kilometers in all directions and somewhere in the distance he can hear a string quartet playing a soft lullaby. Above him, sunlight streams through stained glass, polished until it gleams and bathing him in shades of reds and oranges._

_"This is beautiful," Yuuri says, voice leaving him in a whisper._

_Ilya steps level to him, studying the library with a critical gaze even as pride seeps into his voice, "I may not be a Great Mage, and certainly do not have the talent of my predecessor in this court, but I have devoted my life to gaining knowledge of all kinds. That's what my dreamscape represents."_

_Yuuri thinks of his own dreamscape—wilting and rotting—and drops his gaze, "You're a greater mage than I am."_

_There's a soft huff of laughter, "In the dining hall, when you protected that young lord, I could only feel a fraction of your might, but I knew you have more power than I could dream of having."_

_"It's done this court quite a lot of good," Yuuri mutters, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice._

_Ilya doesn't reply right away. Instead, he begins walking, and Yuuri trails after him, studying the bookshelves they pass curiously—intrigued to notice that the bindings get more worn the further in they walk. "You remind me of a woman I used to know, before I came here as the previous mage's apprentice. She took it personally whenever one of us was in trouble or hurt, even though we weren't her children; Hiroko was an amazing woman," he pauses, before sighing, "she would be disappointed to see what I became."_

_Yuuri hesitates, tongue heavy at the prospect of admitting his identity even now, to a man who used to be part of his village, in a haven only accessible to people of their kind. Steeling himself, Yuuri murmurs, "You did what you had to in order to survive, and you did it without causing harm...my mother would be proud."_

_To Yuuri's surprise, Ilya smiles, glancing back at him, "When you defended me in front of the new king, you reminded me so much of her that I began to wonder. Of course, Hiroko's magic is still a force to be reckoned with, even from beyond the grave. Whatever spell she weaved to protect you kept me from being sure of myself."_

_The bookshelves part, revealing a circular reading nook complete with lush chairs settled in front of a crackling fire pit. Even from the edge of the nook's entrance, Yuuri can feel the tug coming from the fire pit: it was Ilya's focus._

_Ilya slides into a chair, motioning Yuuri to the other. He glances at the fire, "It's usually larger, but I suppose it's nice to know how much time I have left. Would you tell me what I missed with the queen’s illness? I tried every trick I know, but my affinity was never for healing."_

_Settling into a seat, Yuuri admits, "She was poisoned."_

_Anger flashes in the older mage's gaze and he leans back in his seat, glaring at the fire, "After all these years I still ended up failing her."_

_"She never suspected you," Yuuri says, "she told me that she wanted to get better to ask Phi-" Yuuri cuts off with a cough to cover his slip before continuing, "-Prince Chulanont if he would take you to Ayutthaya. She said you deserved to spend your days there, as a reward for your service."_

_Ilya's eyes flick back to Yuuri and he manages a slight smile, "Her Majesty was always kinder to me than I deserved. When I came to this court, as an apprentice to the last royal mage, she worked hard to make sure I felt respected even though I was still a novice: barely eighteen." Ilya shrugs, "I suspect it was a promise Hiroko had the queen swear to when she took me with her from Serenity. It was a lifeline for me."_

_"I remember the queen and Viktor visiting, and saying goodbye to you at the end of their stay, but why did they come?"_

_"The previous royal mage was dying," Ilya replies, "the Nikiforovs have always had a mage in their service, even as our kind began to die out, it's one of the symbols of their right to the throne. With the scarcity in mages, the only way for her to find a suitable candidate was to choose someone from our village."_

_Yuuri frowns, "I've never heard anyone speak about your predecessor."_

_A wry grin twists onto Ilya's face, "As well you wouldn't. They were dabbling in forbidden practices; their life source being sucked away as punishment for their greed. When I discovered it, and reported it to the queen, Isidora banished them." Shrugging, Ilya adds, "it was the dead of winter and they were weak, I doubt they made it as far as the forest."_

_The fire flickers lower and lower as they talk, the sunlight streaming in from the ceiling fading with it until the two mages are sitting next to a pit that's little more than embers and the rows of books that make up the dreamscape are no longer visible._

_Ilya pushes himself to his feet, "My time is drawing to a close, but I'm glad I got the chance to speak to you, Yuuri." He sweeps a bow, one much lower than Yuuri ever saw him give Viktor or Isidora, "I believe what few of us are left will be in good hands with you."_

_Shadows edge into the reading nook as Yuuri's face burns with embarrassment. He opens his mouth to protest, but the lights in the embers are flickering out one-by-one. Yuuri doesn't have time to say another word before the library is devoured by darkness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mikhail (who the queen mentions briefly in her argument with Viktor) is Mikhail Babichev (Mila's father).....may he rest in peace.
> 
> *Chapter songs: Deep End by Ruelle and Bad Dream by Ruelle.


	11. divisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humans are not the only ones who can get political.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This past week was [Fic Writers Week ](http://ficwritersweek.tumblr.com)over on tumblr and I [recorded an audio](https://lovingnikiforov.tumblr.com/post/168020898759/part-three-fic-writers-week-2017-day-four-for) that describes the process behind creating the kingdoms in the story and explains the rules of magic.
> 
>  **Listen to the[Fic Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq) on Spotify.** This chapter: song #8.

His hands are shaking.

_No, scratch that._

His entire body is trembling from head to toe.

It’s all Yuuri can do to reach out and slide Ilya’s eyes closed, to murmur the traditional prayer to the dead that he recited at the queen’s bedside mere hours ago.

When he was younger, Yuuri had a horrible habit of blaming himself for things outside of his control. It was the death of his entire village that brought the habit to a halt; after Yuuri had almost destroyed himself with grief it was Minako who resumed his lessons with an important rule: learn what you can control, and what is beyond your grasp.

Yuuri couldn’t have saved Isidora.

He tried his best: he gave up his relative anonymity and let himself be dragged into the life of court intrigue, he worked day and night to help nurse her back to health, his knowledge had saved her from the slow pain of death by poison. But the attack in the banquet hall was something he could not prepare for, there was nothing he could have done to prevent it, he cannot blame himself for being overpowered, for being outmaneuvered.

But, Yuuri could have saved Ilya.

He knew that Ilya was innocent, he knew that there were people in the court (Viktor included) who would doubt the mage’s innocence regardless of the lack of evidence, because Ilya was a mage, and humanity inherently fears what is out of its control.

Knowing all of those things, Yuuri had left Ilya to fend for himself, had left Viktor alone without making sure Viktor understood the facts of the situation. When he came to the mage’s room today, he had done so as a passive observer in the face of an impending investigation. Yuuri’s inaction is partially to blame for what occurred here, his refusal to acknowledge his place and influence in the world of mages has resulted in the universe losing just a touch more magic (when their world is already starved for any to begin with).

However, despite the rage and grief wracking his frame, the shame of failing one of his people heavy on his shoulders, Yuuri knows he doesn’t carry the blame alone. There’s more at work here than grief and fear. There’s one more person he can save.

Bending forward in a slight bow to the abandoned corpse, Yuuri murmurs, “Rest well, Ilya. I’ll handle her.”

 

* * *

 

Despite being the king, Viktor’s come to the rapid realization that people tend to disagree with him more now than ever, all under the pretense of looking after his safety. The guards who accompanied him to Romanov’s chambers spent the better part of five minutes arguing with his order for privacy, stating it was a violation of their duties to leave him alone with a potential killer.

Each second he wasted arguing that he could protect himself from a civilian no longer armed with a cheap dagger was a second taken away from calming Zarya down, a second taken away from his duties, from finding the people behind this week from hell, from finding some way to manage the aching pain deep in his chest and the panic that restricted his lungs whenever someone refers to him as ‘Your Majesty’.

By the time Viktor is left alone with Zarya and Mila, his patience (already at a remarkable low) is close to being worn thin. It is for the sake of his mother that he gathers his thoughts and graces the sobbing woman with the kindest smile he can muster, “I should have come to talk to you, Zarya, I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head vehemently, “You’re the king, you have more to worry about than a mere court scribe.”

Viktor pulls a handkerchief from his tunic and gently picks up one of her hands, noting that it trembles in his grip. Carefully, he wipes away the drying blood from her palms, “My mother cared for you, that makes you more than a mere scribe in my eyes. I understand your grief—we’re probably the only people in the palace who have felt her death this deep—but you cannot take the law into your own hands. If he survives, the law will determine his guilt and deliver the appropriate punishment.”

“The law will find no such thing,” Yuuri’s voice sounds from the direction of Romanov’s bedchamber.

His sudden appearance makes Zarya jump, clearly surprising her, and Viktor shifts in his seat so he can see Yuuri striding from the bedroom. Yuuri walks past Viktor without so much as a second glance—and he knows it shouldn’t sting as much as it does, but for some reason, the action cuts straight to his core—to open the nearest window.

“Lord Romanov is dead.”

The words float through Viktor’s head like a hazy cloud, his mind taking much longer to process them than it takes Zarya, because she begins to laugh immediately. The noise is filled with disbelief before descending into hysteria, and Viktor tears his gaze from where Yuuri is opening the window to stare at her. Viktor knows that different people handle grief in different ways, and he himself might have gutted Romanov if it weren’t for the matter of his position within the kingdom. However, the mania in Zarya’s eyes feels completely foreign to the kind woman who his mother let into her personal life.

“He’s dead?” Viktor repeats, needing to make sure, not confident that he isn’t imagining this whole thing.

“Yes,” Yuuri confirms, and when Viktor glances back at the other man, Yuuri’s gaze is locked directly on his and there’s a hard edge Viktor didn’t even know Yuuri’s eyes could hold, “so I ask you, Your Majesty, what the law will do to right a wrongful death.”

The title feels wrong coming from Yuuri’s mouth, but Viktor doesn’t even have time to process it because Zarya replies first.

“Wrongful?” she screeches, “he killed her! He killed her in cold blood!”

“No, he didn’t,” Yuuri replies, attention leaving Viktor in favor of studying Zarya. His gaze runs along her face clinically, the lack of emotion in is face unsettling (and uncomfortably reminiscent of Romanov’s dead eyes), “but you not only murdered a lord of this court in cold blood, you also took the life of a mage. It is the last factor which places your sentence firmly in my jurisdiction.”

At that, Viktor finds his voice again. With a frown, he gets to his feet, trying to force Yuuri to look at him once again, “You don’t have any authority over her sentence.”

“Tell me, what do you know about the laws that govern magic and mage-kind?” Yuuri challenges without pause, chin jutting out, making it clear that he won’t back down.

And Viktor has never run from a fight in his life, has never turned down a challenge. A mixture of grief and sleep-deprivation means he’s running purely on determination and adrenaline, and the rational part of Viktor’s brain senses something more is going on here than he can see, but at the moment all he knows are the rules and propriety that were drilled into his head at a young age. It’s these instincts that have kept him functioning even as his world crumbled around him, and he replies without thought: “I don’t, but I am king here. I will make sure we find justice.”

For most, this reaction, the unwavering command in Viktor’s voice, the flash in his eyes, would cause them to back down. But Yuuri merely scoffs and crosses the room, stepping past Viktor to stand in front of Zarya.

“Your justice is blinded by prejudice. Luckily for this woman, mine is not.”

The words stun Viktor into silence, and he looks up at Mila, who has been watching the entire exchange without saying a word. Her eyes are narrowed thoughtfully as she studies Yuuri, giving no indication that she plans to back Viktor up anytime soon. So, Viktor looks back at Yuuri just in time to see Yuuri slide his hand through Zarya’s hair, ignoring her shouted curses and the way her hands claw at his arm. Yuuri holds her still so he can press his forehead against hers.

When he speaks, his words have a physical presence, as if they exist beyond sound waves. They rock to Viktor’s core like the clear chimes of the temple bells as Yuuri says, “Let her go.”

At Yuuri’s back, wind rushes into the room with a ferocity completely unbidden. The gust flows directly at where Yuuri hovers over Zarya, touching nothing else, and dies just as suddenly as it arrived. When the wind drops, Zarya slumps against the back of the couch: unconscious.

“What did you do?” Viktor asks, stunned.

Letting her hair slip through his fingers, Yuuri straightens, “She was being compelled.”

The term sounds vaguely familiar from the dozens of magic books Viktor began reading after meeting Yuuri, “Like…mind control?”

“Magic has its limits, just like anything else. A mage cannot control the actions or mind of another human being. However, someone particularly powerful can latch onto a strong emotion or strong desire and feed it, compel their target to act on the emotion, though they could not control how the target response to the compulsion. If she had not held some spark of murderous intent toward Lord Romanov to begin with, none of this would have happened.” Yuuri tilts his head slightly, studying Viktor with a sharp gaze (and Viktor feels like Yuuri is looking into his soul, as if trying to find the same kind of murderous intent).

It drains the fight from Viktor’s body and he slides back into a seat on the couch, “She loved my mother, Yuuri.”

Yuuri nods, “Which is why she was an easy target. It’s lucky they didn’t go after you instead.”

“Do you really think I would kill him without a trial?” Viktor asks, exhaustion seeping into every one of his bones as his mind tries to process what’s going on, to process the utter turmoil of his reign that’s not even 24 hours old.

“You nearly convicted him without a trial, isn’t that the same thing?”

“She was killed by magic.”

“If that was your only basis for conviction, I should have been placed under house arrest as well.”

“Believe me, I advocated for it,” Mila pipes up for the first time from the corner, voice dry.

Shifting in his seat, Viktor levels a stern look at Mila for choosing the most _unhelpful_ time to make her presence known, “But we both agreed Yuuri isn’t a killer.”

Mila shrugs, “It’s also not in his best interest for the only other mage in Kiev to get convicted with murder.”

There’s a dry laugh, tinged with the same kind of weariness that Viktor feels, and Yuuri says, “I wish I could be surprised that my innocence was questioned, but this is why mages keep to themselves—humans only like us when we’re doing what they want. The moment we push back we’re suspect, assumed guilty, and any defense we make only seems to convince you of our guilt.” Yuuri digs through the small cloth bag that acts as his mage’s kit and pulls out a vial of salts, “if she’s still acting oddly when she wakes up, hold this under her nose, it will clear the rest of the compulsion from her system.”

He places the vial on the table and heads toward the door. Viktor blinks at the vial, working his way through Yuuri’s words: this is the first time Yuuri has ever admitted to being more than a village healer or relying on a trick of the light for his stories. The other man is at the door when Viktor gets to his feet and whirls to face him, “Are you leaving?”

Yuuri pauses, hand on the handle, and tilts his head (as if considering the question), “I don’t know yet, but I won’t be overseeing her recovery: let one of your doctors care for her.”

He’s is out the door before Viktor can say another word. With a sigh, Viktor runs his hands through his hair, “My first day as king will go down in history as the worst disaster in Kiev.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Mila hums, “we’ve had worse. What are you going to do about Yuuri?”

“Do?”

She doesn’t make any noise as she leaves her corner, drawing level to Viktor to stare at the door with him, “I already mentioned this, but when he protected Yurio from that attack, I could feel the weight of his magic. He’s a Great Mage, Viktor, and we just made him mad. You should take some kind of precaution.”

Viktor’s gaze flicks toward the bedroom, where Romanov’s corpse lays, and a twinge of guilt twists his gut. With the older man’s sudden death, and Yuuri’s words weighing down in Viktor’s thoughts, Viktor can’t muster the same confidence that the mage was party to the attack, and it was that conviction that has kept him functioning through the night: the drive to prove his hunch right about his mother’s killer.

“I don’t think Yuuri would try and hurt me. Do you?”

Mila considers the question, lips pursing thoughtfully, “The Yuuri who heals the sick in his village wouldn’t hurt a fly, but he was pretending to be someone else, just like you were.”

“I wasn’t pretending to be someone else, I was being myself for once.”

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Mila sighs, “but this is my job now, to assume everyone is an enemy and keep the crown strong. You have an angry mage prowling your palace, your majesty, what are you going to do?”

“Angry is not the same as an enemy,” Viktor murmurs, drawing himself to his full height and making his way toward the door, “and Yuuri has been nothing but a friend to the crown, I’ll have him treated as such.” Before opening the door, Viktor glances back, “I know you’re trying to protect the kingdom, Mila, but just let me talk to him before you move to worst-case scenarios.”

Mila shrugs, “You’re the king, Viktor.”

He hates being king.

 

* * *

 

The feeling, the energy, of the royal palace is nauseating.

It clings to Yuuri’s skin like the humid air he hasn’t experienced since leaving Ayutthaya, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up similar to when how he felt the split second between registering the magical wolf and pulling Viktor out of harm’s way. It makes his stomach churn, fills Yuuri with the sensation of the city itself rejecting him: telling him he’s not welcome here.

He’s not invisible anymore.

Just as Mila mentioned on their walk to Ilya’s chambers, word travels fast. As he strides through the corridors, he can feel people’s eyes on him. Snippets of conversations reach him as he turns corners, carried on little bursts of wind that swirl around Yuuri unnaturally.

He knows he’s not inconspicuous right now. Sections of his clothing are stained a deep red and slowly turning rusty brown in places: the Royal Mage’s blood literally fresh on his hands. Having picked up his agitation, having helped Yuuri drive away the compulsion so Yuuri wouldn’t waste any of his magical reserves, the wind now follows Yuuri through the corridors, an invisible but still tangible presence that has the people he passes pressing against the walls to avoid his path.

His progress through the halls is different than it has been in the days past. Before, Yuuri curled into himself, trying to draw as little attention as possible. Now, after his eye-catching display at the banquet hall, Yuuri knows there’s little point in trying to avoid suspicious gazes. His back is straight, head held high, as he stalks toward the nearest entrance to the gardens. These people already fear him, distrust him, he will not let them think he is cowed.

It’s only marginally better when Yuuri steps outside. At the least, he no longer has to deal with the whispers and stares, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s surrounded by people who will turn on him given a moment’s notice.

“Where’s Phichit?” the words leave his mouth no louder than a whisper, barely audible to his own ears.

He speaks loud enough for his intended target to hear, evident in how the air drops into stillness around him. Yuuri continues walking, slowing down into a more leisurely pace as he waits, trying to keep the first prickling of panic at bay long enough to find a safe space.

The first strand of wind returns, brushing past Yuuri’s ear with a snippet of conversation in Ayutthayan, “-to find him.”

It flies past rapidly, too fast for Yuuri to understand any context of the conversation, but he doesn’t need more than the second to recognize his friend’s voice.

Turning in the direction where the wind came, Yuuri begins to pick up his pace, blindly following his guide and changing his course whenever a new brush of conversation blows past him.

“-grown man. He can handle-”

“-my friend-”

“-it’s too dangerous-”

Coming to a stop beneath a balcony with open windows, Yuuri takes a moment to make sure no one is nearby before softly calling, “Phichit!”

Within seconds, brown eyes are leaning over the railing of the balcony to meet his own. Phichit turns and snaps a few orders before he’s tugged out of sight of the balcony and the window is closed. Leaning against the castle wall, Yuuri takes deliberate breaths, trying to wait patiently instead of barging into his friend’s room. If word gets back to the Kievan politicians that Yuuri and Phichit know each other, it would make them both suspects.

“Put this on.”

Glancing to the side, Yuuri gives Celestino a small smile and accepts the plain white cloak Celestino hands to him. It shimmers with a spell Yuuri is more than familiar with, and he tugs it around his shoulders, pulling the hood down low to cover his face.

“Head down, don’t make eye contact,” Celestino murmurs.

Yuuri chuckles, “believe me, the last thing I want is for anyone to know I came to visit.”

That earns him a curious look, but Celestino motions Yuuri along the wall toward the nearest entrance to the palace. Yuuri follows close behind, keeping his eyes on the back of the older man's heels until he's herded past a pair of guards and into the suite of rooms set aside for Phichit's use.

There's a sharp sigh of relief and Yuuri looks up, brushing the hood from his hair to meet his friend's gaze.

Phichit is bolting across the room before Yuuri can so much as shape his mouth to speak. He’s pulled into a tight hug, and Yuuri feels the tension draining from his body in the face of his friend’s support. “Are you alright, Yuuri? We were so worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri mumbles into Phichit’s shoulder, squeezing back, “what about you?”

“Fine, everyone in my delegation made it out alive, thanks to you,” Phichit replies, pulling back so he can meet Yuuri’s gaze. “You’ve been doing more magic, I can feel it all around you.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to brush off the comment, but realizes he doesn't have it in him to pretend any longer. He lets his mouth fall shut and merely stares at Phichit. Yuuri has been running on autopilot since the banquet, doing what needs done purely on adrenaline or instinct, but Phichit is the one person he's never needed to pretend around. More than a friend, Phichit is like a brother, and if anyone can find a way to help Yuuri sort through the muddle of thoughts and emotions currently weighing him down, it's Phichit.

Brown eyes rove Yuuri's face, brows crinkling slightly at Yuuri's silence before Phichit murmurs, “what do you need?”

The question catches Yuuri off-guard. He's been so focused on taking care of everyone else—nursing the queen, being there for Viktor, trying to save Ilya, freeing the mage's murderer—that he doesn't even feel like Yuuri anymore.

A shuddering breath is torn from his lungs and Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, “I need you to listen.”

Phichit reaches out and gently squeezes his hand, “Of course.” The younger man raises his voice, no longer speaking to Yuuri as he says, “I'll have some privacy with my friend. We'll be in the other room, no disruptions.”

There are murmurs of agreement as Phichit tugs on Yuuri's hand. Eyes blinking open, Yuuri trails after his friend through the sitting room and into the bedchamber. He's directed to stand in the center of the room while Phichit locks the door and digs out a charm from the small purse at his belt.

“I could cast a silencing spell,” Yuuri murmurs.

Phichit gives him a wry look, “You're exhausted, Yuuri, I can see it all over your face. The charm does the trick just fine.”

Yuuri sighs and tugs at the fabric of his trousers, “It's my own fault for not practicing. I should hardly be winded. It's disgraceful.”

Propping his hands on his hips, Phichit studies Yuuri for a long moment before shaking his head with a soft smile, “Stop beating yourself up. Come on, you should wash off some of that blood. I'll get some clothes for you to change into.”

Blinking down, Yuuri takes in the brown stains on his palms. Bile rises to his throat and Yuuri whirls on his heel, rushing into the washroom to empty the contents of his stomach in the latrine. There's not much for him to dispel, and Yuuri wearily wipes the tears from his eyes as he straightens.

“I'm going to ask for some water. If I request food will you eat it?” Phichit asks from the door, a pile of clothes in hand.

Yuuri shakes his head, and doesn't miss the way Phichit's mouth purses slightly before melting into another smile as he sets the clothes down, “Take your time. I doubt anyone will come looking for you here.”

When the door closes, Yuuri gingerly peels away his ruined clothes. A basin of water and a rag are within easy reach. The water itself is cold, and Yuuri bites back a hiss when it first comes in contact with his skin, but the rigid temperature helps calm his nerves, helps clear his head. Washing Ilya’s blood away also does wonders to push back the tide of panic, and by the time Yuuri is pulling on the soft silk of high-quality Ayutthayan garments, he almost feels normal.

Stepping back into the bedroom, the smell of food wafts over Yuuri and his stomach growls. His friend gives a victorious grin, “I knew you were hungry.”

Phichit's kneeling on a thick mat settled on the floor over a low table that he tends to travel with. Yuuri makes his way over to kneel next to Phichit with a rueful smile, “I just wasn't feeling up to eating.”

“You've been working hard, you can't forget to take care of yourself too,” Phichit says, “besides, if Minako learns I let you starve she'll have my head and I prefer it attached to my neck.”

Laughing, Yuuri accepts a loaf of bread and tears off a piece, dipping it in the broth settled on the table before plopping it in his mouth. It's heavenly.

He works his way through the soup in silence, letting the support of his friend, the promised safety around him, lull him out of his defensive mood and into something more sustainable. Only when he's wiped the bowl clean does Phichit shift, smile faltering slightly, “Do I need to get you out of here?”

Yuuri sighs, “I don't know.”

“What happened?”

Haltingly, Yuuri explains everything he knows from when Viktor first asked him to come to the palace to Yuuri lashing out at the new king not even an hour prior. Phichit listens to it all without reacting, eyes sharp on Yuuri's face, memorizing every detail that drops from Yuuri's lips. When he's out of words to say, Yuuri trails off with a shrug, “I don't even know where to go from here."

Phichit drums his fingers on the table, "How much does he trust you?"

Another shrug, "I don't know. He must trust me somewhat because he let me nurse his mother and didn't try to arrest me. Why?"

"You're strong, Yuuri, really strong: I think sometimes you forget that most people have never interacted with a mage who has as much power as you do. Not to mention that you're not a pushover and you get kind of intimidating when you’re angry. If the Babicheva was already eyeing you, now she'll definitely be concerned."

"I...I know. I can't go back to the village and keep pretending I'm a nobody."

Phichit nods in agreement, "The way I see it, you can either mention the queen's request to Viktor and offer to be the new mage." Yuuri winces at that, which makes Phichit chuckle, "I figured that would be your response. Or you can leave."

"But-"

Shaking his head to halt Yuuri's protest, Phichit says, "I want you to seriously think about it, and make a decision based on what's best for you, Yuuri. You're always a healer before you're anything else, but Viktor isn't your responsibility and he's not in the position to reciprocate the type of selflessness you give him."

Frowning, Yuuri protests, "Viktor's not a bad person."

"I didn't say he was," Phichit replies easily, "but think about it: his mother just died, he ascended the throne, the mage he's hated for most of his life got murdered under his nose, the man he's enamored with not only continually defended that mage but also gave him a tongue lashing. He's king, he's emotionally drained, he's not going to be present enough to even notice if he pushes you too far."

As always, Phichit makes a lot of sense as he rattles through the facts. Yuuri still protests, a slight blush on his cheeks, "He's not enamored with me."

"Right. Whatever you say." 

" _Phichit,_ " Yuuri presses.

Raising an eyebrow, Phichit says, "I'm not going to genuinely agree with you on that one, Yuuri, take what you can get."

Someone knocks on the door, and Phichit lets out a long-suffering sigh, "What part of no interruptions can't we handle?"

The door cracks open and Celestino peeks his head inside, face somber, "King Nikiforov is outside requesting a moment of your time."

Yuuri feels his heart drop through his stomach.

Phichit doesn't look slightly ruffled, "Did he say why?"

"He wants to know if you have any information from the attack that might be useful," Celestino murmurs, "made mention of you being a magic user."

Phichit snorts, "Show him into the sitting room, I'll speak with him." Celestino nods and closes the door. Phichit glances over at Yuuri, "you might as well try and rest while I entertain the new king."

"Don't bite his head off, Phichit," Yuuri says as his friend gets to his feet.

He's graced with a dramatic look of offense, Phichit bringing one hand to splay against his chest, "I'm the perfect host, thank you very much."

With a snort, Yuuri waves Phichit off.

 

* * *

 

 

The smile that had been bright across Phichit's face drops as soon as he turns from Yuuri, and he straightens his shoulders, mentally pushing his worry for his friend to the side so he can focus on playing his part correctly. Lifting his chin slightly, Phichit pushes open the door just wide enough to slip into the sitting room without giving a glimpse of the inside of the bedchamber.

King Nikiforov is already seated at the small table, thanking a servant as they pour him tea. Standing behind his chair, at his right shoulder, is Lady Babicheva.

"Your Majesty, I apologize for making you wait," Phichit announces as he makes his way to the chair opposite, inclining his head slightly in respect before taking a seat. "My condolences on the loss of your mother. She was an amazing woman."

Viktor's eyes briefly drop from Phichit's before he musters a polite smile, "Thank you, Your Highness. I hope I'm not disturbing anything?"

Shaking his head, Phichit accepts a cup of tea from a servant, "How can I be of assistance?"

"I was hoping for your perspective of the events of the banquet. As someone with magical inclination, you likely picked up on things the rest of us didn't notice." The king's voice is notably casual, his word choice matching: trying to put Phichit at ease by keeping them as equals.

Phichit takes a sip of his tea before replying, voice lofty, "I'm not sure I can tell you anything that your royal mage has not already reported."

There's not so much as a flinch from the older man, no hesitation as he smoothly replies, "Lord Romanov was seated several tables away, so his report on what caused the queen's collapse leaves room for assistance."

"And what of the healer you seemingly have on retainer?" Phichit presses, tilting his head slightly to study Viktor from underneath his lashes, "I hear he's talented. Surely as a Kievan citizen his judgment is more valued than my own."

 _That_ gets under Viktor's skin. His eyebrow twitches slightly, his fingers tighten on his cup, but his voice is even, "I'm sure you can appreciate my desire to be thorough in this investigation. This is the greatest attack on Kievan soil in several hundred years."

With a shrug, Phichit admits, "I'm afraid I do not have much to tell you. While I do have magic, the amount is minimal. The most I can say is what you already know: the mage who attacked your court is extremely powerful."

"You could not say anything about the mage who was behind the attack, Prince Chulanont?" Lady Babicheva asks.

Phichit shakes his head, "Since their magic is so much stronger than mine there's little I could detect besides pure might." He purses his lips thoughtfully, pretending to just remember a detail he deliberately withheld until the right moment, "There was a lot of malice in the attack. Unbridled hatred directed at the Nikiforov house." Phichit lets a flash of defiance show in his gaze as he says, "as if the dynasty has a bad history of angering mages."

Blue eyes narrow slightly, picking up the direct challenge, "We show no disrespect to those who do not mean us harm."

_Oh. That really got under his skin._

The slip into the ‘royal we’ is meant to intimidate, but Phichit's only just getting started and he has no intention of backing down, "It is a sad truth that people without magic fear those who have it; they assume that might means there is also the intention to harm. I'm sure your royal mage has experienced just the same."

It's a stand-off Phichit won as soon as Viktor arrived because Phichit is armed with so much more information that Viktor could have dreamed of. He knows the royal mage is dead, knows Viktor mishandled both magic users who could be considered part of his court, knows that the person who could really answer Viktor's questions is (hopefully) recovering in the bedroom just steps to their right. He can literally see the king warring with the desire to push back or retreat and save face.

Their tense meeting is interrupted by a knock on the door. Celestino moves to open it as silence falls between the two royals. A runner boy is let into the room, and he bows to Viktor and then Phichit, before holding out a note.

Lady Babicheva accepts it, running her gaze over it, before handing it to the new king. Viktor frowns, and glances back at the runner, "Where is she?"

"The guards are holding her at the courtyard, sire."

Viktor nods, and flicks his gaze back to Phichit, "Forgive me for being blunt, Your Highness, but you know Yuuri."

Phichit doesn't react, his face smooth and expressionless, "Who?"

Blue eyes carefully study the room, taking in Celestino's guarded stance and the other servants hovering nearby (pretending not to eavesdrop) as he says, "During the attack in the banquet hall he referred to you by your given name, even gave you an order. You also called his name." Viktor's eyes lock back on Phichit's, glittering with a sharp edge, "that's not to mention the pointed comments you made every opportunity you received when you first arrived. He's here, in your chambers."

Leaning back in his seat, Phichit considers the Kievan king. Given how confident the older man is in his (admittedly correct) assumption, Phichit doesn't think that even his smooth talking will be enough to convince Viktor of anything less. After a long moment, he tilts his chin slightly, letting his pleasant tone vanish, wanting to make it crystal clear that, king or not, he won't be letting Viktor mistreat his best friend.

"He's here. That doesn't mean I intend to let you see him."

That seems to surprise the older man, and Viktor glances over his shoulder at his spymaster, as if searching for guidance. Lady Babicheva merely shrugs, her face impassive, and Viktor meets Phichit's gaze, the hardness leaving his eyes as he seems to make a conscious decision not to antagonize Phichit further, "I'm interested in how you two know each other, of course, but I mostly ask because this message is for him."

He holds out the runner's note, and Phichit takes it, skimming the words on the slip: _Minako (woman who owns the bar) arrived. She's demanding to see Yuuri ~Chris._

Phichit folds the note, "Bring her here. They can speak in privacy."

"What's so important that it has to be kept secret, Your Highness?" Lady Babicheva asks.

"I wouldn't know. What I do know is that this court is dangerous for people with magical power, and I intend to keep my friend safe from unfounded suspicion." Phichit shrugs, "You probably don't know Minako well, so let me tell you this: not even your royal guard will be able to hold her in the courtyard without her consent for long. Bring her here."

Babicheva's eyes narrow slightly, "Prince Chulanont, I believe you forget your place as His Majesty's guest-"

Viktor holds up his hand, stopping the lady mid-sentence, and he gets to his feet. Something close to resignation flickers across his face as he turns to the runner, "Escort Miss Okukawa here immediately." The runner boy bows and rushes out the room as Viktor nods at Phichit, "it's comforting to know he has devoted friends. Please tell Yuuri..." the king trails off, looking momentarily lost before clearing his throat, "never mind. If you'll excuse me."

He turns on his heel and strides from the room. Lady Babicheva spares Phichit a slight bow before following after him. As soon as the door is closed, Phichit slumps in his seat, allowing himself a sigh of relief. Considering he's a foreigner in Viktor's palace, he gravely overstepped his bounds: gambling on the fact that Viktor cares too much for Yuuri to cause a scene. It’s a gamble that paid off better than he might have hoped.

"Not enamored," Phichit mumbles to himself, "bullshit."

 

* * *

 

Left alone, with nothing to do other than drown in his thoughts or take a nap, Yuuri opts for the second option. Climbing into the bed, he places his glasses on the side table and slips under the covers. Yuuri smiles slightly, recalling when he used to sneak into Phichit's room after bad nightmares when they were both younger.

With a fleeting thought of how grateful he is that Phichit happened to be in Kiev when everything blew up in Yuuri's face, he drifts off to sleep.

It feels like mere seconds later when someone is gently shaking his shoulder, telling him to wake up. Yawning, Yuuri blearily blinks his eyes open and suddenly feels wide awake. Sitting bolt upright, he grabs for his glasses despite not needing them to see the distinct features at his side.

"What are you doing here?" he asks.

Minako raises an eyebrow, "I could ask the same thing of you. Left in the middle of the night to the royal palace without so much as a note. Honestly, Yuuri, I would have been worried sick if Viktor hadn't sent a messenger to let me know where you went."

"Viktor...sent a message?" Yuuri repeats, mind still catching up from his nap.

"Yes. And then Phichit sent one after the disaster of that banquet last night." She studies Yuuri, eyes carefully scanning his face, searching for any indication of how Yuuri feels.

Glancing around the room for the man in question, Yuuri realizes they're alone and asks, "Did Phichit bring you here too?"

She shakes her head, "I came after reading his note and made a fuss at the palace gates until that blond one—Chris—came to get me." She scowls slightly, "and had the nerve to hold me in the courtyard until he got permission to let me into the palace."

Yuuri can't hold back a slight laugh. Despite the insanity, it all sounds exactly like what he should have expected from her. "I'm sorry for worrying you, nee-san."

Minako flicks his forehead, smirking at his surprised yelp, "Figures the time you fall for a boy, he's the damned king."

"I didn't-" Yuuri cuts off his protest with a sigh, knowing better than to argue with the woman, "do you remember Vitya?"

Frowning at the question, Minako glances over Yuuri's shoulder, as if looking into the distance, "The silver-haired boy you introduced me to all those years ago? The one that said he wanted to become a player?"

Nodding, Yuuri says, "That was Viktor."

"Humph, the long hair suited him better."

"Nee-san!"

Remorseless, Minako shrugs, "So you two met when you were younger. Does that mean you're staying in the palace?"

Tugging his bottom lip between his teeth in thought, Yuuri asks, "If I leave would you come with me?"

"Yuu-kun, you're a grown man now, you don't need me breathing over your shoulder," she says. "When I'm old and these blasted winters are too cold for me, I'll retire to Ayutthaya. Until then, you don't need me hovering anymore."

The door to the bedroom opens, and Phichit leans against it, smiling apologetically, "Sorry for interrupting, but it's been decided that we're riding out in two days. Just thought I should let you know now."

Minako shakes her head, "I've got a business to run and miners to pour ale for."

Phichit nods, and both pairs of eyes fix on Yuuri.

Squaring his shoulders, Yuuri meets Phichit's stare, "Is there room for one more?"

"For you?" Phichit replies, looking relieved, "always."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the last couple of chapters have been quite Yuuri-centric. Next chapter I'll be diving deeper into Viktor's POV so we get a better understanding of how well (or not well at all) he's handling everything.
> 
> A note about the mage vs. human divide: while both species have been able to co-exist in the past, a lot of that co-existent was made possible because mages kept to themselves. As Yuuri mentions, venturing out into the world of humanity and making yourself known as a magic-user always had its risks, which is why he grew up in a village that functioned as a sanctuary for mages. 
> 
> Chapter Song: _Until the Levee_ by Joy Williams


	12. goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One reign is layed to rest and another begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm not to brag or anything but yes, I totally did update this fic 2x this month. 
> 
> **Listen to the[Fic Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq) on Spotify.** This chapter: songs #9  & 10

Kiev is in mourning.

Hundreds of her citizens line the streets of the capital city, dressed in dull shades of blacks and grays, faces gaunt as the procession rides past. From atop his horse, Viktor sees tears sliding down the cheeks of those around him, an entire city united in its grief, feeling the loss of a beloved queen.

It's eerily silent. The only constant sound is the crunch of gravel under hooves and the wheels of the carriage carrying the late queen's casket. Occasionally the quiet is punctured by a sob or murmured prayers. He hears curses too—there has never been such thing as an universally loved monarch, and those who still hold a grievance with the Nikiforovs mix into the gathering, vindication alight in their eyes.

Viktor can't decide which is worse: the grief of well-meaning strangers or the victory of the politically motivated. None of it is genuine. Hundreds of people flocked to the city, bundled in cloaks and wool to stand outside in the chill of early winter, to pay their respects or damn her for eternity, and Viktor has never felt more alone. Their emotions seem to mock him—so much shallower than the soul piercing agony that's been his reality for days, yet expressed more freely than Viktor will ever be allowed.

He's not allowed to cry as he rides a measured ten paces behind the carriage. When they reach the catacombs, and Viktor stands before those assembled for the ceremony, his voice is not allowed to waver. It's ironic, that Viktor lost his mother, the only family he has ever had, and it is his job to comfort a nation that never knew her beyond the rigid mask Isidora wore atop her throne. Grief is a luxury he is not afforded: Viktor's duty is to hold his head high so that his subjects can see the image of a strong successor, feel confident in the future of the country.

He feels like a fraud.

He's been trained from childhood for this moment. Viktor's sat through hundreds of lectures on public policy and foreign diplomacy; he's practiced bows until his back ached, trained to fight until the blisters on his hands began to bleed. He's been the image of the perfect heir since being knighted, but nowhere in his lessons did Viktor learn how he was supposed to move on, to run a country, with his mother's corpse still warm in her bed.

Viktor doesn't feel present as the carriage rolls into the open plains next to the catacombs. A stranger dismounts and hands the reins to his waiting squire. It's another man who claps Christophe on the shoulder as a 'thank you' for watching his back. The words that roll over the assembled mass, the promises of the continued stability of their country, the resolutions to further the legacy of Queen Isidora Nikiforova, are not his own.

He's not sure Viktor Nikiforov exists anymore, or if he died with the passing of the crown.

As he scans the faces in the crowd, Viktor's eyes linger just for a moment on brown that no longer seems quite as warm. Yuuri sits next to Prince Chulanont. Since Viktor's visit to the prince's chambers (not even twenty-four hours prior), Yuuri has barely left the foreign royal's side. Even now, their shoulders press against each other as they listen to an empty speech.

Viktor can't hold Yuuri's gaze for long, doesn't think he could make it through the rest of the ceremony if he let his thoughts spiral into the mess that has become of his friendship with Yuuri. His eyes move on, taking in the rest of the crowd as he shoves his emotions deeper back, locks them away for another time: compartmentalizing is all he can manage in the hopes that when it blows up in his face it will at least occur in the privacy of his chambers.

Somehow, he finishes his speech without so much as a waver in his voice. Somehow, he keeps his head high as he steps back and lets the clergy take over. By some miracle, Viktor watches his mother's casket enter the catacombs without shedding a tear. He bears the well-wishes of the courtiers with the same grace and poise as if this was just another court function, just any other day.

When he gets back to the palace, Viktor heads directly to his office, ignoring the ache deep in his chest.

His desk is empty.

All the documents he had left on the ancient wood that morning are nowhere in sight. The scribes who sit near the doors of the large room are gone, their desks just as bare. Viktor lets the door slide shut behind him before he speaks. "What is going on?"

Leaning against the desk, arms crossed over her chest, Mila shrugs. "You have an important evening ahead of you. We decided resting should be your first priority."

Eyebrows drawing down, Viktor glances around the room, "Who is 'we'?"

"Chris and I, mostly. Yurio muttered something about you working yourself to death and turning him into a desk squire," Mila says. "You only have a few hours before crowning, but even you need to rest at some point."

Viktor glances away, trying to keep himself from snapping at her—aware that his friends are trying to be helpful in their own ways. He doesn't have the words to explain that working himself ragged is the only way he's been able to function in the aftermath of his mother's death, he hasn't even let himself think about what will happen when he is left alone with his emotions, with the reality of his circumstances and nothing to distract him. As much as he appreciates what Mila is trying to do, he has only been able to function because he has been working nonstop. The lack of time to think about his circumstances, to process what has happened, has worked in his favor.

"The needs of the kingdom do not stop for anyone," he murmurs.

Mila rolls her eyes, "She managed to sleep through the night without Kiev collapsing, you can spend three hours away from your desk."

"Do you plan to take your own advice?"

She doesn't so much as flinch. "Chris mentioned he'll be making sure I can't get into my own office for the next few hours. Go, Viktor.”

Biting back a sigh, Viktor forces himself to smile, aware that the expression doesn’t reach his eyes, that it won’t fool Mila. Just as he did in the past—before becoming king—whenever she would force her way, Viktor sweeps her a sardonic bow. “By your leave, my lady.”

The respondent grin isn’t quite genuine either, but the relief in blue eyes is. “I’ll see you later.”

Leaving the study, Viktor pauses just outside the door, not entirely sure what to do now that the prospect of working himself ragged has been taken away from him. He sets off down the corridor, making his way to his chambers with the intention of collapsing on his bed and curling around Makkachin.

She’s not inside his chambers when he arrives, and a brief shot of panic laces through Viktor’s body. Sticking his head out the doors, he catches the eye of one of the guards. “Where is Makkachin?”

The man looks slightly bewildered by the question, “One of the servants came to take her for her afternoon walk, Your Majesty.”

 _Oh._ Panic melts away into embarrassment, Viktor gives a curt nod and vanishes back into his chambers. He briefly remembers Christophe offering to set up a regular routine for Makkachin while Viktor was busy with the treaty talks. It only makes sense that the routine continued when things got worse, when Viktor was even more preoccupied.

Without Makkachin, Viktor is completely listless. Yanking off the stiff overcoat he wore for the funeral, Viktor starts pacing his sitting room. Restless energy crackles under his skin, and his hands clench into fists at his sides. There was a time where feeling like this would have taken him to the stables and out of the capital, riding for a small village near the mountains. The slice of calm he found there, the ability to let go of all the stress he carried in the castle, is gone—destroyed because Viktor tugged Yuuri into the chaos of the palace with him, and then managed to push him away.

Banging on his door pulls Viktor from a dangerous line of thought. Whirling on his heel, he strides to the door and tugs it open, somehow surprised to be faced with a glare from his squire. Stepping aside, Viktor lets Yuri inside.

To his credit, the boy waits for the door to shut before snapping, “Are you seriously going to mope in here until the crowning?”

Yuri’s particularly blunt way of speaking is a bit of a shock after Viktor’s spent so much time around people bowing and scraping. “I’m not moping.”

There’s a scoff, “What are you doing then?”

Glancing around, Viktor searches for something nearby that can give him some sort of credibility. Only now does he realize how barren his chambers feel. He’s barely stepped foot inside over the past week, only coming to attempt sleep before nightmares push him back on his feet once more. Where he stands, in the middle of the sitting room, there’s not so much as book on the table or a cup of tea; there’s nothing he could use for a credible lie.

“I was thinking.”

“Well, I _think_ that my knight master has been a good-for-nothing desk knight for nearly three weeks now and I’m bored out of my mind. When was the last time you stepped foot in the practice yard?”

Viktor opens his mouth to reply, realizes he doesn’t know, and presses his lips into a thin line.

Yuri takes his silence for the answer that it is and juts a thumb toward Viktor’s bedchamber. “Go put on something that isn’t stuffy and expensive so that I can kick your ass.”

Somehow, the comment pulls a smirk onto Viktor’s lips, genuine amusement curls in his gut. “Do you really think you can beat me in a sword fight, Yurio?”

“That’s not my name,” Yuri snaps. “Since you haven’t practiced for weeks, you’re probably rusty, old man. Hurry up.”

Without so much as waiting to be dismissed or sweeping a single bow, Yuri strides from the room, letting the door bang shut behind him. Viktor chuckles to himself—it’s refreshing to be treated as a normal human after everything that’s happened. Even people who know him personally, like Mila, have been walking on eggshells around Viktor, as if afraid the wrong word might shatter him.

Now that the suggestion (or demand) has been made, venting his stress in the practice yard does sound appealing.

It takes Viktor all of ten minutes to change into the most casual clothes he’s worn in days. He tosses the ceremonial belt and sheath on his bed and clips his sword into the well-worn leather that feels like a second skin around his waist. Glittering rings are dropped on his vanity and the boots he tugs on look more at home in the streets than in the palace. Despite Viktor’s home being the castle around him, he feels more authentic when he strides through the corridors dressed like a village guard.

As promised, Yuri waits for Viktor in the practice yard, talking animatedly to the fourth-year squire Viktor has found him practicing with on more than one occasion.

Making his way through the yard, Viktor raises a hand to greet the various knights who call out his name. With the sun now at its peak, it’s just warm enough today that they can justify being outside. All too soon the yard will be abandoned in favor of the indoor courts, but for the moment the brisk air helps center Viktor, the slight chill that runs down his spine keeps him present.

When Viktor steps into the ring Yuri seems to have claimed for their match, green eyes flick to him and narrow. “Are you ready to get destroyed, old man?”

Raising an eyebrow, Viktor unclips his sword and sets it down on the nearby bench, picking up the two practice blades waiting for their use. “It wounds me that you’d forget how skilled I am in mere weeks.” He tosses one of swords at Yuri, unsheathing the second and letting the scabbard fall aside. “I suppose there’s nothing for it but to give you a thorough reminder.”

“While you’ve been shuffling papers, Beka’s been helping me practice,” Yuri retorts, unsheathing his own sword and handing the scabbard to the squire in question.

Viktor grins, “Then give me your best shot, Yurio.”

Scowling, Yuri shifts his stance, barely waiting for his friend to move out of the ring before he launches himself at Viktor. It’s a predictable opening move from the squire, and Viktor’s lost count of the times he’s told Yuri not to dash into a fight headfirst. He steps into the attack, sword coming up to meet Yuri’s in a direct counter, the dull blades meeting with a clash of steel that rings through the courtyard. The noise echoes in Viktor’s head, and he can’t hold back a laugh— _this_ has always been where he felt most alive. Not necessarily in duels, not when someone’s life is on the line, but in the practice court where he can spar with everyone who knows how to swing a sword, where minor nobility and even the commoners in the castle guard swing at Viktor without care for his title or his name.

His smile doesn’t falter as Viktor disengages and flicks his sword sideways, forcing Yuri to hop back. His squire _has_ been practicing. Yuri’s always been skilled, a natural talent with many of the fighting arts, it’s that more than the weight of Yuri’s family name that made Viktor select the boy as his squire. But Yuri has always been overconfident in that talent, not as focused on refining his technique as he could be. Now, Viktor can feel the focus in each swing, can see the spark of determination in green eyes, and despite being pleased with Yuri’s progress, Viktor also feels a little disappointed that he wasn’t involved in this spurt of growth.

Resolving to put aside more time for Yuri’s training from now own, Viktor lunges forward, blade twisting in a complex maneuver that forces Yuri’s blade out of his grip. In the next breath, the tip of Viktor’s sword is resting at the hollow of Yuri’s throat.

They freeze.

A grin curls onto Yuri’s lips, “Alright, not bad for an old man.”

Viktor lowers his sword, “You’ve improved.”

“Well, I had to find someone to help me when you turned into a fucking hermit,” Yuri sniffs, glancing toward the side of the ring.

Viktor follows the line of Yuri’s gaze, finally noticing that they amassed a bit of an audience during their brief match. He waves over the squire Yuri is referring to, quickly cycling through names before he lands on the right one.

“Altin, isn’t it?” Viktor asks, holding out his hand in greeting, studying the younger man. As a minor, and a relatively new, noble house, the Altins don’t have much of an impactful presence within court. It’s only the darker skin—characteristic of many who fled north to escape the expansion of the Atreides Empire—that helps Viktor make a connection.

The squire nods and gives Viktor a firm shake, “Otabek, sir.”

It’s an informal term of address, a sort of unspoken rule about the practice yard. Titles and rank are all but disposed of here, and Viktor mentally kicks himself for avoiding it for so long when this kind of informality is exactly what he’s been craving.

“Beka, you should have a bout,” Yuri pipes up. A slight frown crosses Otabek’s face and he glances over at Yuri. Some sort of silent conversation happens in front of Viktor’s eyes before Yuri adds, “you’re about to be knighted anyways, give it a go.”

“I’m willing,” Viktor says.

Yuri doesn’t give Otabek a chance to protest, shoving his practice sword into Otabek’s hand with a murmured instruction to _“wipe the smug look off his face”_ before he’s stepping out of the ring and leaving them alone.

Viktor swings his sword casually, backing up a few steps to give them a proper starting distance and flashing a taunting smile at the squire. “Ready for me, Altin?”

A look of cool determination fills Otabek’s face, and Viktor makes a note to review the squire’s training reports for future reference before he steps into an attack.

Predictably, Viktor wins that match. And the match after that. He keeps being challenged and keeps winning, just as he has for the past several years, ever since being named the Queen’s Champion. The title is hollow now—he’ll need to pass it onto another member of the court soon—but the underlying weight of it, the declaration that he is the best swordsman in the court, is not forgotten by any of his opponents. He can feel it in the drive behind their attacks, they’re all eager to match themselves against Viktor.

It’s fun.

Lunging and dodging, parrying and attacking, Viktor lets go of his thoughts and moves with the flow of the battle—a sort of dance matched to the shouts of the small crowd and the rings of steel. His body moves on instinct, muscles reacting to years of ceaseless training and grueling repetition. He laughs when one of his opponents, a wily man ten years his senior from the castle guard, nearly gets the better of him. He teases the knights who he’s fought before, and gets mocked and jeered in return.

Viktor forgets all the confusion and hurt that’s been leering over him without end. He forgets the fact that his mother’s killer is still out there somewhere, probably waiting to kill him. Forgets that, when the sun sets behind the mountain peaks, he will be officially crowned as the next monarch of Kiev. Forgets that, somewhere between his mother dying and this point, he let himself get swept up in anger and grief, let himself be guided by those emotions so far down the wrong path that he drew the ire of the kindest soul he thinks he’s ever met.

If the universe let him, Viktor would stay in the practice yard until he collapsed of exhaustion.

“Oi, Viktor!” He turns from watching a match between two pages and sees Yuri holding his sword. There’s a hint of regret in green eyes; Viktor accepts his sword and clips it onto his belt, not sure why Yuri would look like this until Yuri mutters, “it’s nearly sundown.”

His heart plunges to his stomach, and Viktor knows his smile slips for just a second before he replaces it with the false expression he’s perfected over the years. “Right, thanks for reminding me.”

Yuri shrugs, “Whatever. Don’t think I’ll let you forget my training just because you’re the king.”

The comment tugs a slight laugh from Viktor, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

* * *

 

Being a member of the royal court means understanding the minute differences between hundreds of particular terms. It’s a matter of knowing when to call someone ‘your grace’ and when to call them ‘my lord’. It’s knowing whether you bow deeper to an earl or to a duke. It’s intricate and complex and terribly dull all the while carrying great importance in one’s social standing.

It’s the difference between a crowning and a coronation. It’s the reason why Viktor is forced to dress in ceremonial attire and stand before a small assembly of his inner court to mark the beginning of his reign as king despite ascending the throne days earlier.

Viktor knows all of these things. Has had them ingrained in his being since he was child. He spent hours upon hours listening to the droning of his etiquette tutor so that he never has to think twice about the proper forms of address or when he’s being dealt a slight. But, just because Viktor _knows_ doesn’t mean he understands.

He doesn’t understand why he must take time away from ruling a kingdom, from hunting down a malignant mage and a clear enemy to Kiev, so that he can be stuffed in a room with the small council of nobility that his mother avoided at all cost. Doesn’t understand why he’s forced to listen to the High Priestess of Maeve can chant words in a language that no one speaks. Doesn’t understand the point of this gathering when he’ll have to arrange a large performance months from now, one where Kiev’s allies can attend, where there’ll be a festival and a holiday of rest.

In this gathering, the only people Viktor would care to spend this time with are forced to stand near the door: Mila too green in her position to be respected and Christophe only allowed entrance to provide protection.

There’s so little involved in the occasion, the tradition simply meant to cement a new monarch’s claim to the throne quickly, before the pomp and circumstance of a full-blown coronation can be pulled together. It’s as simple as a few prayers, signing a document, and stamping wax with his signet—somehow all of these things deemed necessary before the crown can rest on his brow.

Silence fills the room, making each time Viktor is prompted to speak feel like a disruption of whatever status quo existed among the council at his back. When Viktor is ushered forward, motioned to kneel at the side of the priestess, he risks a glance at the small assembly. It’s a much different audience than what Viktor experienced in the practice yard. Hard eyes stare at him, size him up and find him wanting. Greed fills others, an assumption that the grief and youth of a new king will allow those with enough motivation a chance to get ahead.

Viktor always knew that a monarch can trust few of the people they surround themselves with. It’s a lesson his mother made sure he learned as soon as possible, repeating it over and over, a deep sadness in her eyes as she spoke the words.

Only now does he understand the loneliness that echoed in her tone.

For the first time, the monarch’s crown is lowered onto his head. The padding inside refitted for a new ruler, a new reign. A small pattering of applause sounds throughout the room: the first noise the bystanders have made since the ceremony began. A gentle hand squeezes his shoulder, and Viktor rises to his feet, sparing a smile for the priestess and murmuring a quiet word of gratitude.

Raising a hand, he waits for the applause to quickly die down before he speaks. “Friends, we thank you for your support and guidance in the chaos of these past few days. However, the times ahead will only become more trying as it is our priority to secure Kiev’s safety from any who mean to cause us harm. Our cause will not waver until the persons responsible for the attack on our people, and on our late queen, are brought to justice. Will you lend your aid and swear your continued allegiance?”

His words are carefully measured, picked hours before they were said aloud, chosen to walk the precarious line between being inciting and harmless. Even so, Viktor can see the hesitation from most of the council. The small speech is the closest to a declaration of war that a Nikiforov has made in nearly a dozen generations. Perhaps, if it was a matter of a neighboring kingdom bearing down on their borders, the hesitation would not be so palpable. At least in such circumstances, the nobility in this room would be tucked safely away from the front lines of the battle. But the fight has already been brought to the heart of the palace, their enemy already targeting those who are pivotal in Kiev’s political system, this is a declaration that may lead to a demand for their action.

The small crowd begins to divide from behind, making a path as Mila strides from her nook in the shadows to stand in front of Viktor. As soon as she comes to a stop, her head is ducking, her body folding as she kneels before him, one hand coming to rest in a fist over her heart.

“House Babicheva will follow Your Majesty in this, and in all your endeavors. Our loyalty has always been to the Nikiforovs, and that loyalty now belongs to you.”

It only takes the first declaration to break the silence, and suddenly everyone is on their knees, heads bowed as they swear their fealty. Only Viktor and the priestess remain on their feet—even the guards are bent over (bowing so they can remain quick to react to any threats).

Viktor always knew that the power he would command as king is miles above, so much more potent, than what he commanded as the heir apparent.

He doesn’t think anyone can understand the fear that renders him numb in this moment, staring over the heads of the most powerful nobility in the kingdom, over lords who have been active in this court before Viktor was born. The crown atop his head is too heavy, pressing down on him with a vengeance; it makes every breath feel like a battle he has to win. His throat feels like it’s closing in on itself, preventing him from speaking.

Down at the front, Mila lifts her head in a breach of etiquette that could have her title revoked (if Viktor was a cruel man) and winks at him.

Somehow, the action, the blatant disregard of station and manners, has Viktor back in motion. “Please, on your feet.” As the room rises once again, Viktor continues, “There will be time for grave discussions, and we may call on each of you in your turn. For now, we thank you for your support and bid you a good evening.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor all but collapses into a chair, his composure vanishing the moment he’s left alone.

Well, not quite alone, as evidenced by the laughter that his graceless action earns him. Christophe walks further into Viktor's private sitting room, a smirk playing around his lips as he eyes Viktor. “I’m curious, did you prepare that speech beforehand or did it just flow easily from your anointed lips?”

Rolling his eyes, Viktor pulls the crown from his head and lets it drop onto the cushion next to him. He can only imagine the gasps of horror the action would earn him from his court. “I prepared it beforehand,” he lets out a sigh, “and I nearly butchered it.”

Christophe raises an eyebrow, leaning against an empty chair, “Do you expect me to believe you’re merely a human after all? I think my heart just broke in two.”

A snort leaves Viktor’s lips, and he runs a hand through his hair, studying the other man from underneath half-lidded lashes. “You’re too kind.”

Mischief sparkles in green eyes and Christophe holds up the small pouch he had been passed by one of the guards at the door. He undoes the ties and pulls out a flask, dangling it between his fingers, a smirk covering his face. “The kindest, darling.”

Viktor watches as Christophe undoes the cap on the flask. "I really shouldn't."

"I seem to recall you mentioning that the day you became too uptight to share a drink with me is the day I should resign from your service," Christophe hums. There's no real bite in his voice, the smirk still playing on his lips as the man echoes words Viktor spoke when he was drunk off a bottle of wine Viktor sweet-talked his way into receiving for free. "A toast to my last night as guard captain, then."

Fingers closing around the nearest portable object, Viktor lobs a pillow at his friend's head. Christophe easily dodges it, and takes a swig from the flask before offering it to Viktor with a dramatic bow, complete with too many arm flourishes. "A drink to not butchering your speech after your crowning."

Accepting the flask, Viktor takes a drink and feels his eyebrows fly up at the strength of the booze. "Is this stuff even legal?"

Laughing at the expression on Viktor's face, Christophe replies, "How could it not be? The king himself drinks it."

It's such a ridiculous response that Viktor nearly chokes on his second sip. The look Christophe flashes his way is pure impish delight, reminiscent of when they would play pranks as teenagers, and it's not just the alcohol that's sending a rush of warmth through Viktor's body.

Drowning in the tragedy and despair of the last several days, he all but forgot the friendships he made within the palace. While it may be a small circle, they somehow made the day that Viktor buried his mother the most light-hearted one he's endured since her sickness.

Soft whining draws his attention, and Viktor passes the flask back to Christophe in favor of sliding from his chair to kneel on the floor, wrapping his arms around Makkachin. "I've been horrible for ignoring you."

More laughter sounds above him, "I'll leave you two alone."

Viktor pulls back from Makkachin just far enough that he can speak clearly, "Chris."

Christophe pauses near the door, tilting his head curiously.

"Thank you. For making sure she was looked after while I was busy." The words aren't exactly the ones Viktor wants to say; as eloquent as he is in court, he's always had trouble expressing his feelings to anyone outside of his mother.

His friend merely smiles, as if understanding what Viktor leaves unsaid, "I already take care of you, adding a dog to my roster was no hardship. At least she hasn't been skipping meals."

The unspoken reprimand in the last phrase makes Viktor grin as he waves Christophe off.

Attention dropping back down to Makkachin, Viktor scratches her behind the ear, "It won't make up for being gone so much, but do you want to go for a walk?"

His answer is a soft bark and Makkachin excitedly licking his face. Laughing, Viktor gets to his feet. Quickly, he changes out of his ceremonial attire (and places the crown somewhere more dignified) and clips on a cloak. Makkachin trots by his side as Viktor leaves his chambers and makes his way to the gardens.

As soon as they're outside, Makkachin darts off. Running just far enough ahead that she's nearly out of sight before she skids to a stop and turns to make sure Viktor is following. And he does follow, jogging slightly to keep up with her in the dark of the evening.  While guards are posted every few feet, the last thing Viktor needs is for Makkachin to get a little too excited and tackle some stuffy baron to the ground.

Just then, as if she was listening to his thoughts, Makkachin barks and leaps at a lone figure making their way through the garden. Swearing under his breath, Viktor races toward them. "Makka! No, let them up!" He drops to his knees in the grass and pulls her back, so the person can breathe, "I'm so sorry, you're not hurt, are you? Sometimes she-"

Viktor's words die in his throat when he realizes who is sprawled on the ground before him. He swallows around a lump in his throat as he stares into brown eyes.

Yuuri pushes himself up onto his elbows, looking every bit as shocked as Viktor feels. His eyes drop from Viktor's to study the ground.

"Are you alright?" Viktor asks, finally finding his words once more.

Nodding, Yuuri adjusts the glasses that had been knocked slightly askew, "I'm fine."

Wiggling free from Viktor's slackened grip, Makkachin steps forward to nudge Yuuri with her nose, forcing his chin upward and pulling a laugh from him despite the awkward tension between the two men.

"Listen, Yuuri," Viktor murmurs, "I wanted to apologize, for how I acted the other day. I was..." the sentence trails off, Viktor's not even sure want exactly he wants to say.

Yuuri is shaking his head, "I'm the one who should be apologizing. It's hard to lose family suddenly like that, it wasn't fair of me to expect you to handle it any better than you did. It's just.... it’s hard to see mages get treated poorly when they haven't done anything wrong."

"You're a mage." It's not the first time Viktor has said as much, but for the first time it's not met with an immediate protest from Yuuri.

Instead, Yuuri merely reaches out and absently pets Makkachin. "I'm not much of a mage."

"Mila says you saved Yuri's life," Viktor points out.

Something flickers across Yuuri's face, something dark and dangerous, "And I let nearly two dozen other people die." Viktor opens his mouth to protest the sentiment, but Yuuri takes a deep breath and says, "Phichit is leaving tomorrow."

Viktor frowns at the sudden topic change. "I know."

"I'm going with him."

The news is a blow to the gut, and Viktor tries not to let it show on his face. "Oh." It's difficult to think of anything to say. "He clearly cares about you."

A slight smile flashes across Yuuri's face, "Phichit is like my brother, he's been asking me to move back to Ayutthaya for years."

"So, you're going to work for his court?"

"I'm not made for politics or court, the last few days have made that obvious. I'm going to set up a new shop in Ayutthaya, find another village that could use my services as a healer, fade back into obscurity." The corner of his lips curl into a wry smile, "I'm afraid I really am best at telling stories."

There's a sense of finality to Yuuri's statement, and Viktor's tongue is heavy with a plea for Yuuri to stay. But there's little he can offer that Yuuri couldn't find elsewhere, he's not selfish enough to ask Yuuri to choose a life Viktor himself doesn't even want. So, he swallows his protests and defaults to a common request. "Tell me a story before you leave?"

It clearly surprises Yuuri; he glances up at Viktor before rapidly turning his gaze back to Makkachin. "What kind of story?"

Viktor shifts so he's seated fully on the ground, studying Yuuri as Yuuri resolutely looks down at Makkachin. There's a softness in the expression on Yuuri's face, reminding Viktor of his visits to the village by the mountains. He wonders if his next words will bring back the empty and guarded look he had seen in Romanov's chambers.

"Your story. The truth." Yuuri's hands freeze in Makkachin's fur, and Viktor rushes to say, "you're not coming back, are you?"

"I don't think it would be a good idea."

"Then you don't have anything to lose," Viktor presses. "I won't tell anyone. You know who I am. You know where I came from. But I don't know anything about you, Yuuri."

There's a long stretch of silence, where Yuuri stares at the ground and Viktor forces himself to keep quiet and wait for Yuuri's decision.

When Yuuri does speak, the words leave him quietly, hesitantly—as if he isn't sure he should be saying them at all. It's completely different from the storytelling Viktor is used to hearing from him, where Yuuri's voice dips and rises with the pace of the tale, curling around syllables with confidence. The contrast tugs Viktor in closer, has him hanging on every word.

"I grew up in a village that no longer exists, a haven for mages in the center of a forest. It was called Serenity..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will be getting Yuuri's full backstory. I toyed with doing a flashback but have ultimately decided to break it up over the next couple chapters. For now I leave you with that little tease.
> 
>  
> 
> **Some Worldbuilding Notes:**
> 
> So...what is the difference between a crowning and a coronation? Not much. A crowning is the act of the crown being bestowed on a new ruler while a coronation is the ceremony that marks a monarch coming into power. Kiev has hereditary succession, so when Isidora died Viktor immediately succeeded her as the next ruler of the kingdom. However, for political and ceremonial purposes, his 'reign' did not officially begin until he was crowned. Kiev traditionally does not hold a coronation until several months later (so the previous monarch can be appropriately grieved and the kingdom can pull out all the stops for the celebration).
**Kievan Immigration:** A lot of our characters (Yuuri, Minako, Chris, Otabek, etc.) are not originally from Kiev. War in the rest of the continent led to many different peoples migrating to Kiev. Some of them left their native kingdoms before the worst of it and have lived in Kiev for several generations now (the Altins and Chris) while others could be considered war refugees (the Nishigoris). 

> 
> Chapter Songs: _When It's All Over_ by RAIGN. _Two Ghosts_ by Harry Styles.


	13. [interlude] ice skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback: Vitya teaches Yuuri how to ice skate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!! I'm currently in the process of updating my other WIPs but I could not let Viktor's birthday go without writing something to mark the occasion. Happy holidays to all and a very happy birthday to Viktor Nikiforov (whom I love with all my heart, sorry for putting you through all this pain).

_It took an entire day of showing Vitya around the village before Yuuri learns that he’s a prince._

_As far as Yuuri is concerned, Vitya is fascinating regardless of his station in life (and titles are practically useless for a five-year-old). Vitya is Vitya, and Yuuri is content with that. After all, having the foreign boy visit is one of the most interesting things to ever happen in Serenity, and Yuuri is determined to enjoy every second of it._

_So, he asks questions. As many questions as he can think of and more than he is able to clearly articulate in their shared language. He asks Vitya about the world outside Serenity (it’s big), about Vitya’s homeland (it’s cold), about his mother (she’s the queen), and whether or not those were really spikes that Yuuri saw braided into her hair (they were, Vitya assures him with a toothy grin)._

_They spend two days with Yuuri asking as many questions as he can in-between hauling Vitya around the length of the entire village. By the morning of Vitya’s third day, Yuuri’s decided that Mari definitely got the worst job—he can’t imagine listening to the adults talk all day is anywhere near as interesting as learning about the types of food Vitya eats at home or what he likes to do when he’s not doing princely things (Yuuri hasn’t quite figured out what ‘princely things’ are yet, but he has time)._

_“I love to ice skate!” Vitya tells him, “it’s so much fun, but we can’t do it all year long.”_

_Yuuri frowns, gnawing on his bottom lip thoughtfully. The term is unfamiliar to him (whether due to him still learning this language or if it’s simply something he doesn’t know). After a moment, he shakes his head, “I don’t understand.”_

_A similar frown crosses Vitya’s face, his finger coming up to tap on his lips before he asks, “Is there a lake?”_

_That’s a much easier question, and Yuuri jumps to his feet, excited that there’s somehow something he hasn’t already shown the other boy. After spending two days being led around the village by Yuuri, Vitya reaches for the expectant hand without pause, smiling as their fingers link together and Yuuri immediately pulls._

_“It’s smaller than a lake,” Yuuri explains as he tugs Vitya towards the tree line, “but we practice by it sometimes. Water is fun: much easier to understand than fire.”_

_Vitya tilts his head, clearly not understanding everything that leaves Yuuri’s mouth, but he doesn’t question the words as they weave through the forest. It’s much further away than any of their other adventures, not technically ‘in’ the village—beyond the village limits by a good twenty minutes. It’s a trek that Yuuri is familiar with, his footing sure among the dense underbrush of the forest. A few times he slows down, worried about the foreign boy managing to keep up, but Vitya keeps pace with him, brows furrowed in concentration._

_The trees part abruptly, allowing just a slight circle of the sky to shine down on a natural spring. If one didn’t know it was there, it would be impossible to find. It’s more of a well than a lake, no more than a few meters wide in diameter._

_“It’s pretty,” Vitya murmurs, “does it have a name?”_

_Yuuri shrugs, letting go of the other boy’s hand to kneel by the water, skimming his fingers over the still surface in greeting to the familiar spring. “It’s Asami’s friend.”_

_“I didn’t meet Asami.”_

_Shaking his head, Yuuri laughs slightly. “She’s not here anymore. Now can you explain what ice skating is?”_

_Vitya’s eyes soften and he begins his explanation, hand’s gesturing wildly as he speaks. “In winter, when it gets really cold, the water freezes over, yes?” Yuuri nods. “Ice skating is when we dance on top of the frozen water.”_

_Yuuri’s eyes widen, and he plops down in the grass, “Dance on the ice?”_

_“It’s my favorite thing to do in the winter.” Vitya sighs, twirling slightly, “I wish I had come in the winter, I could teach you how to skate.”_

_An idea flickers in Yuuri’s mind and he asks, “When the water is frozen, you can ice skate?”_

_“Yes-”_

_It’s all the information Yuuri needs; turning to face the water once more, he lowers onto his stomach so he can rest the palms of his hands over top of the water’s surface. Idly listening as Vitya rambles, he tugs on the fire deep in his core, mumbling under his breath to the water as he pictures exactly what he wants to happen in his mind’s eye._

_“-and some people can do tricks on the ice. I never have enough time to learn them though. My friend, Chris, thinks we might be able to sneak out during the night this winter and practice! It would be a lot of fun and I think-”_

_Vitya cuts off abruptly as the temperature around Yuuri’s fingers drops. Yuuri feels a grin tugging on his lips as ice spreads out from the palms of his hands, slowly covering the surface of the lake before gaining momentum and rapidly crackling across the water until the entire well is frozen over._

_Pulling his hands away, Yuuri pushes himself to his feet. “We can ice skate now!”_

_Blue eyes are round as saucers, one hand is covering Vitya’s mouth, and belatedly Yuuri remembers his mother’s stern rule: no magic in front of the visitors except for emergencies. He’s heard horror stories of humans reacting violently to magic usage and immediately his thoughts begin to spiral into panic._

_“Wow,” Vitya breathes, finally, dropping his hand, “it’s all frozen?”_

_Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Yuuri nods. To prove his point, he steps off the grass and onto the ice: there isn’t so much as a creak underneath him._

_A beaming smile spreads across Vitya’s face and he laughs, “Magic is amazing! You’re so talented, Yuu!” Without an ounce of hesitation, the older boy follows Yuuri onto the ice, reaching both hands out for Yuuri to clasp. “We don’t have the special shoes for ice skating, but we can glide.”_

_Any questions Yuuri might have about the difference between skating and gliding, about the ‘special shoes’ that they are evidently missing, are abandoned with a slight yelp as Vitya pulls on their combined hands and slides backward on the ice._

_Vitya’s smile widens at Yuuri’s reaction, and he gives Yuuri’s hands a reassuring squeeze. “I promise I won’t let you fall.”_

_Swallowing the lump in his throat, Yuuri nods and lets Vitya pull him over the ice. Vitya glides backward, shifting his weight to maintain his balance while Yuuri wobbles, eyes wide at how easily Vitya seems to move over the frozen spring. It’s utterly unlike anything Yuuri has seen before, unlike anything he’s done, and he knows that his mother said Vitya doesn’t have magic but it’s hard to believe in a moment like this._

_“Try kicking your legs,” Vitya says after they circle the well a few times, “push one after the other.”_

_Yuuri does, and suddenly they’re going faster, his actions adding to their momentum in a way that has his smile returning._

_Nodding encouragingly, the older boy says, “Okay, I’m going to let go now.”_

_“No!”_

_“It’s okay, Yuu.” The words are said in a rush, Vitya trying to keep Yuuri from panicking, “I’ll still be right here, but you can do it on your own.”_

_The ice meets each push of Yuuri’s boots, and he glances down at the frozen well. Water has always been kind to him, and this spring, in particular, is like an old friend, perhaps he can do this. Hesitantly, he nods._

_It’s not the sudden absence of support he was expecting. Instead, Vitya slowly eases his grip until they’re connected by nothing more than their fingertips: still touching, but Vitya no longer in control of Yuuri’s movements. Blue eyes twinkle and then Vitya’s hands are gone._

_Yuuri keeps gliding._

_He pushes one foot and then the next, moving around the edge of the well much the same as he did when Vitya was pulling him._

_Laughter rips through his body. “Vitya! I’m doing it! I’m ice skating!”_

_Vitya laughs with him before he says, “I knew you could do it.”_

_They skate around and around and around the edge of the well. As Yuuri gets more confident, Vitya travels further away, twirling in the middle of the well, silver hair flying around his face like a halo. Briefly, Yuuri thinks that he should have waited until the moon was out: he’s sure she would have liked to see this too._

_Eventually, Yuuri slides to a stop and sinks to his knees, chest heaving from the exertion. Vitya skids to a stop in front of him and bends over, running a concerned gaze over Yuuri’s face. “Are you okay?”_

_Nodding, Yuuri huffs, “Ice skating is a lot of work.”_

_Vitya hums in agreement, “Rady to go back?”_

_Yuuri isn’t ready. He’d be content to sit on the ice and watch Vitya dance for several more hours. The stubborn set of his face must give him away because the corner of Vitya’s mouth twitches (like he’s trying not to look amused) and he holds out his hands, offering them to Yuuri._

_“One day, you should come visit me in Kiev, and I can take you ice skating on the big lake. By then, I’ll know how to do tricks and I can teach you.”_

_Yuuri accepts Vitya’s hands and lets the older boy pull him upright, considering the offer, “Promise?”_

_Fingers slide through Yuuri’s until Vitya’s pinky fingers are locking around Yuuri’s and he nods, face solemn, “I give you my word as a prince.”_

_Nose wrinkling, Yuuri says: “Just as Vitya.”_

_For some reason, that seems to surprise Vitya. His eyes widen momentarily, staring at Yuuri like Yuuri is some sort of apparition before he regains control of his face and offers a soft smile. “Fine. I give you my word as Vitya.”_

_Yuuri grins, and tugs on their combined pinkies, pulling Vitya toward the edge of the ice. “I’ll go visit you when I’m older.” He pauses to sneeze, “the ice is cold.”_

_Vitya laughs and hops off the ice onto the grass; Yuuri follows behind. As soon as he’s solidly on land, the ice melts away behind them, fading into the deep blue of the well water until there’s no evidence it was there at all._

_The foreign boy stares at it for a long moment, awed, but Yuuri’s attention has already moved on. “Maybe I can visit you for your birthday! That’s in winter!”_

_He tugs on Vitya’s hands, pulling the prince away from the spring as he chats animatedly about how much fun they’ll have when Yuuri eventually makes his way to Kiev. He’s so caught up in his ideas that he misses the way Vitya links their fingers together and squeezes gently before jumping into the conversation with ideas of his own._


	14. folly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions are made, not all of them are wise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long gap between chapters! We're coming up on the final act (or whatever word I'm really looking for) of the story so things will be ramping up from here. I've been sitting on several of these plot points since starting the fic so I'm excited to share them with you all!
> 
>  **Listen to the[Fic Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq) on Spotify.** This chapter: songs #11  & 12

Standing in the castle courtyard, Yuuri tugs his cloak closer to his body. Chills run down Yuuri’s back that have little to do with the coolness of the dawn hour; his cloak is thick and warm, doing more than enough to protect him from the beginning of the Kievan winter. The bumps that run down his arms are a reaction to the uneasiness that seems to cover his surroundings like fog, and Yuuri can’t quite place why it feels so wrong.

His trek back to the village, to pack up the belongings he wanted to bring, was carried out the previous afternoon. Flanked by two soldiers from Phichit’s escort, Yuuri gathered the items he wanted to travel with, gave away what he no longer needed, and said his farewells to those he would miss. He’s left people behind before, was a bit of a nomad before he finally settled down in Kiev, but this is only his third time leaving a home, only his second time doing so voluntarily, and it had been a hard battle to fight back tears as he hugged Yuuko for the last time.

Around him, members of the Ayutthayan delegation rush to pull the caravan together. Yuuri only vaguely pays attention to the commands shouted in three different languages as he sweeps his gaze over the towering spires of the palace. Somewhere inside he knows Viktor is busy running a kingdom, but that doesn’t take away from the slight twinge of disappointment that the other man isn’t present to see him off.

On the other hand, saying goodbye to each other here, under all the watchful gazes, would feel much less genuine than the words whispered underneath the stars, with only a poodle as their witness. Perhaps it’s for the best that Yuuri isn’t being forced to go through one more dance of politics with a man he had come to consider as a close friend.

A hand waves in front of his face, and Yuuri blinks, glancing over to meet sharp scrutiny from Phichit. “Are you alright, you’ve been standing here staring for the last five minutes.”

Yuuri shrugs, “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

Gnawing slightly on his bottom lip, Yuuri asks, “Do you think I’m a coward?”

Phichit cocks an eyebrow, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the question. “Coward? What makes you say that?”

“I keep running away.”

Phichit flicks the side of Yuuri’s head, “Don’t be an idiot. You faced off with a Great Mage without batting an eyelash, you’re not a coward. Besides, you went out of your way to help this kingdom, but you still need to take care of yourself too.”

Rubbing the spot of Phichit’s flick, Yuuri gives a slight nod, but doesn’t bother trying to argue with his friend.

As always, Phichit immediately picks up on what Yuuri leaves unsaid, and switches focus. “You’re probably just tired, you were out late last night.” Phichit’s voice dips and rises in a sing-song, an intentional dig for information that pulls a sigh of exasperation from Yuuri.

“I wish you’d let it go, I told you nothing happened.”

“You were alone with the king of Kiev, a man I threatened diplomatic relations with just days ago when he was merely asking about your whereabouts, and you’re telling me nothing happened?” Phichit presses.

Yuuri turns his back on the castle and scans the Ayutthayan delegation, relieved to note that the caravan should be prepared to leave shortly. “We just talked. He asked me about my family.”

“Did you tell him the truth?”

For a moment, the bustle of the castle courtyard fades away, swallowed by the darkness of nightfall, the plea for honesty that sparkled at Yuuri from brilliant blue eyes:

_"I grew up in a village that no longer exists, a haven for mages in the center of a forest. It was called Serenity. I lived there with my parents and my sister, it was all I had ever known.”_

_“Serenity.” Viktor draws out the word, testing it on his tongue. A frown crosses his face as if he is trying to remember something long forgotten, “was this the mage village where the Katsukis lived? Did you know them?”_

_“Everyone knew the Katsukis.” Yuuri shrugs, “but I thought you wanted to know about my past? Not theirs.”_

Yuuri blinks his eyes rapidly, forcing himself out of his head, away from the memories, away from the way lies flowed from his mouth with ease even though something inside him had been begging him to tell Viktor the truth.

“No, I didn’t.” His lips twist into a wry smile, “to think I used to be a horrible liar.”

It’s a poor attempt at shifting the topic, but Phichit rolls with it anyway, an impish grin lighting his features. “I wouldn’t say horrible so much as pathetic. You were so bad that people couldn’t even be mad at you for lying. Not to mention that you hardly said a word the first six months you stayed with us. I was convinced you were mute.”

Rolling his eyes, Yuuri counters, “It’s not as if you gave me the chance to say anything when you were so busy talking my ears off.”

“Your Highness,” Celestino’s voice interrupts whatever retort is on the tip of Phichit’s tongue, “the caravan is ready to move at your word.”

Phichit nods, “No reason to loiter any longer then.” He glances at Yuuri, “the only extra horse we brought with us has a bit of a temper. I honestly wouldn’t let anyone else ride her.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow in a prompt that has Phichit snapping his fingers. The wordless command brings two horses before them. One is a friendly gelding that’s been Phichit’s primary horse for years. The other a midnight black mare who seems to be fighting against the simple lead that brings her to the forefront. Stepping forward, Yuuri reaches for the reins (which the servant is all too eager to surrender) before stretching a cautious hand to the mare’s neck.

The mare shifts slightly, but drops her head to fix one eye directly on Yuuri’s face. Encouraged by the reaction, Yuuri bends over and blows a gentle puff of air into the animal’s nostrils, smiling when the mare returns the favor with a flick of her tail.

“I know animal magic isn’t a thing, but the way you handle horses always makes me doubt that,” Phichit says.

“I’ve learned that horses generally have great taste in people,” Yuuri teases, patting the mare on the neck.

“So just because they like you, they’re brilliant?”

Swinging into the saddle, Yuuri says, “Exactly.”

“Show off,” the comment is uttered under Phichit’s breath as he mounts his gelding. Wheeling his horse around, Phichit pauses to have a rapid conversation with Celestino.

As he waits for the order to move, Yuuri sweeps his gaze back over the castle. With the sun rising from behind the mountain peaks, the entire courtyard is bathed in oranges and reds. The latter color splays across the castle walls in a hue too similar to the magic that plunged the palace into chaos just days prior.

Cupping his hands together, Yuuri brings them to his mouth in a motion meant to look as if he was blowing on his hands to keep warm. Murmuring into the enclosed space, Yuuri lets his eyes flutter shut as he carefully pulls on his magic, the words servings as a conduit for the delicate spell until gold begins to leak from the cracks between his fingers.

Blinking his eyes open, Yuuri carefully uncurls his fingers and blows on the magic collected in his hand. It flutters out of his palms much like flour, expanding to a cloud that floats toward the palace before dispersing entirely.

Someone clears their throat, and Yuuri glances over to meet Phichit’s look of exasperation. “No one will even notice.”

“You’re hopeless,” Phichit sighs. Not waiting for Yuuri to reply, he looks at Celestino, “give the order to move out.”

Celestino relays the order to another rider, who pitches their voices so it carries over the noise of the courtyard with a snapped command in Ayutthayan that has the entire caravan surging forward, toward the castle gates. Yuuri falls into line just several steps behind Phichit, wanting to spend a few minutes in relative privacy as he begins the journey away from the kingdom he had made his home.

Wind picks up at Yuuri’s back, making his cloak billow out in front of him, as if pointing out Yuuri’s new path.

“Yuuri.”

His name brushes past Yuuri’s ear, a whisper carried on the gust of wind that he’s not even sure he heard at all. Frowning, he turns in his saddle and catches sight of a figure standing on a balcony. Gold glints off the crown on Viktor’s head; flanking his back is Yurio, arms crossed over his chest as he scowls at the caravan.

Viktor raises his hand in a farewell, and Yuuri’s stomach churns at the smile that beams down on him. Even from a distance, he can tell it’s not _Viktor’s_ smile, but rather the smile of King Nikiforov. Forcing a smile of his own, Yuuri lifts his hand in return and waves goodbye.

The smile on Viktor’s face falters slightly, but his lips move, forming words that the wind carries from the balcony straight to Yuuri.

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The northern tower is considered an abandoned area by many of the castle's inhabitants. Rumors circle about ancient torture chambers still existing below ground or an unspeakable evil nesting at the spire's tip. The truth of the matter is nothing quite so fanciful, but perhaps just as dangerous.

There isn't a soul in sight as Viktor strolls through the corridor towards the tower, his path lit only by the torch he plucked from its holder several minutes ago. Despite the apparent desolation of his surroundings, the hair at the back of his neck prickles: he's being watched.

Viktor doesn't react. He knows that he won't be able to find his watchers, that they've been trained too well for that. If anyone other than himself were making this trek, they would have been intercepted and turned away long before this point.

Stopping at the door that leads to the tower stairwell, Viktor digs into his belt purse and pulls out an old bronze key. It slides easily into the lock and the door gives way with the silence of well-greased hinges.

He can hear the temple clock striking the late hour as he climbs up the steps. Viktor's body protests his insistence to keep moving, keep working, but he ignores the twinges of discomfort in his legs, ascending the spiral until he's standing outside a second door at the top of the tower.

Viktor raps his knuckles against the wood to announce his arrival before pushing open the door.

The spymaster's office is filled to the brim. Files and papers are splayed over several tables, maps are tacked to the walls, bookshelves with tomes one could never hope to find in the palace library creak under the weight of their occupants.

Mila glances up from the papers before her and flashes a tired smile at him, "I wasn't expecting you to visit tonight."

Viktor sticks his torch in the empty holder just outside her door and steps inside with a shrug, "You said you had important information."

"I always have important information," she replies, smile widening into something more genuine as she pushes the papers aside, watching Viktor cross the room and drop into the seat opposite. "Tea?"

He shakes his head, "I shouldn't. The information?"

Mila lets out a sigh and leans forward, propping her chin on a fist. With her free hand, she drums her nails against the wood of her desk, a pensive look in blue eyes that immediately puts Viktor on edge.

"Is it that bad?" he asks.

"I'm hearing rumors, nothing more than whispers really, about a powerful mage that may have been behind the incident at the banquet," Mila says.

Viktor raises an eyebrow. "That's good news, we need to know who our enemy is before they strike again."

"My sources indicate there's a Great Mage in service to Prince Menelaus."

The name sucks the air out of Viktor's lungs, and his eyes leave Mila's to study one of the maps off to his right. It depicts a large landmass, a different color for each kingdom. Only three colors remain: one for Ayutthaya, one for Kiev, and one for the Atreides Empire.

"I suppose it was only a matter of time until they turned their sights on us," Viktor muses. "My mother was hoping the unrest in the South would delay them a bit longer. Still, attacking with magic from afar seems rather cowardly for the ambition of Menelaus."

"Getting an army through the mountain pass is no small feat."

Viktor nods in agreement, gaze flicking back to meet Mila's eyes, "Have they started mustering troops?"

"I haven't heard of any major movements."

Her unspoken 'yet' echoes heavily through the room. Viktor considers the information for several minutes before getting to his feet. "There's no point in causing a panic. Their prince would have to be a fool to attack us in the winter, and the snows should come soon. Send a courier to Prince Chulanont's caravan, if Ayutthaya lends us some troops we can hold the empire off."

Mila sighs, "Additional troops won't do us much good if there is a Great Mage with them. Whoever attacked the banquet is worth an entire company. You should-"

"Stop," Viktor cuts her off, tone sharp, "I won't do that."

"He lived here for five years, Viktor, he's as much a citizen as I am. He can't just ignore the king's request."

Turning his face away from Mila, Viktor takes a deliberate inhale, trying to prevent the tremors in his fingers from working their way through his body. He can still see the complete despair that had overcome Yuuri's face just nights before.

_"I still don't know exactly what happened, and I was young at the time, but one night my mother pulled me out of bed. It was during the new moon, it should have been pitch black outside but the fire made everything bright. I could see it devouring people alive. They kept screaming, it was-” Yuuri cuts off, fingers digging slightly into Makkachin’s fur. The poodle whines softly, nudging her nose against Yuuri’s cheek._

_"Yuuri, you don't have to."_

_Closing his eyes, Yuuri shakes his head forcefully, "Just, let me finish.”_

_Something in Yuuri’s tone makes Viktor clamp his mouth shut, makes him nod in agreement even though his heart aches at the way Yuuri’s voice wavers over the words._

_Yuuri takes a shuddering breath and plows on, “I was still learning so I wasn’t old enough to try and push the fire back. My mother made Minako take me to safety, we ran into the forest through a gap in the blaze. We kept running for what felt like hours.” He pauses, staring up at the night sky with an intensity that makes Viktor think there is a language in the stars, information that only Yuuri can read. “The fire died with sunrise, almost instantly. Minako made me promise to stay hidden in the cave we spent the night in while she went back to check for survivors. There weren’t any.”_

“I’m not going to drag him into a war, Mila,” Viktor says, pulling his attention back to the situation at hand. “Have some of your people go through all of Romanov’s belongings, we’ll learn what we can about fighting magic as a start.”

“It won’t be enough.”

Viktor starts back toward the door, “That wasn’t a request.”

Mila’s soft, “Of course, Your Majesty,” chases Viktor out the office and away from the north tower. 

 

* * *

 

_His feet are tired, the thin-soled boots he wore at home were not meant for the wear of constant travel. The sun beats down on his head, making Yuuri sway with each step. His stomach is empty, convulsing as if his body has resorted to eating itself for survival._

_Yuuri would have rather died with his family in the fire. At least they died quickly._

_The memory of his family, of his mother and father and even Mari rushing into the flames, trying to save the rest of the village, burns Yuuri's eyes. He would cry again, if his body had any more moisture to shed. As it is, the screams of the others echo around him until Yuuri's not sure what is real and what is fake._

_He would collapse here if it weren't for the iron grip around his wrist, the incessant pull of Minako as she marches ahead. Yuuri wants to protest, to ask for a break, to tell her to just leave him behind. His mouth is too dry, throat ruined from the nights when he wakes from nightmares to realize he had been screaming for help._

_They left the forest days ago—Yuuri's not sure how many—and have been trekking across plains ever since. They wake up before dawn, when the sky is beginning to brighten, when there is just enough light for them to see each other and start walking. They keep going until after sundown._

_Minako comes to a halt, and Yuuri stumbles into the back of her legs, blinking up blearily at her. The hand around his wrist tightens slightly and she speaks, her voice so quiet Yuuri can barely hear it._

_"Lay down on your stomach. Don't move, don't say a word until I tell you it's okay to come out. Tap my wrist once if you understand."_

_Exhaustion, hunger, and thirst all make the words difficult to comprehend, but the danger inherent in Minako's sudden change in countenance is obvious. He taps her wrist once, and she lets go of him. Yuuri doesn't sink to the ground so much as he barely avoids collapsing, disappearing into the grass._

_Minako rests her hand at the small of her back, covering the dagger that she always wears before striding forward, and Yuuri vaguely wonders if he's about to lose her too. He's too tired to even feel panicked at the thought._

_There’s a shout, someone calling out in a language that Yuuri doesn’t recognize and can’t understand. Minako replies in the same tongue, voice lighthearted, airy, and Yuuri frowns to himself at the honey that oozes from her tone: it’s a stark contrast to the way her fingers had clenched around the hilt of her dagger._

_A response, this time closer to where Yuuri hides. The speaker’s voice is deep, jovial, but something about it sends chills down Yuuri’s spine. Curiosity getting the better of him, he pushes up onto his hands and knees, peeking his eyes over the tall blades of grass._

_Minako is standing next to a man, patting the neck of his horse and chatting eagerly. The man tilts his head, seemingly considering something, before dismounting with a pleasant smile._

_It happens so fast Yuuri isn’t even sure of what he sees._

_Minako steps closer to the man, hand moving from the horse to shake his. The moment their hands touch, she tugs him forward and off-balance, her freehand thrusting in with a flash of steel. Blood splatters against her cloak as she slits his throat, stepping aside so the man falls face first in the dirt._

_Yuuri thinks he might have forgotten how to breathe._

_“I told you to stay hidden.” Minako’s voice easily carries across the distance. She half-turns, meeting Yuuri’s gaze. “You may as well come out now.”_

_By the time Yuuri is able to get his feet under him and travel the scant meters between them, Minako is kneeling over the body, running skilled fingers along sleeves and into liners, pocketing anything of value._

_“Why did you-”_

_“-kill him?” She cuts him off, glancing up at Yuuri from where she kneels. “I killed him because you and I are going to die if we don’t get money. He had two canteens of water and a horse: we’ll be able to speed up our journey considerably.”_

_“But-”_

_She gets to her feet, eyes hard, “I promised your mother I would keep you safe, Yuuri. This is what it takes. Besides,” her lips twist into a scowl, “he was an empire soldier. If he saw so much as a hair of you, gave a report to someone who could identify us, we wouldn’t stand a chance.”_

_“Mama said hurting people is bad,” Yuuri mumbles._

_“She taught you that hurting with magic is bad, and that’s an important lesson to remember.” Minako turns to the horse, rummaging through saddlebags as she says, “But now it’s my job to help you grow and make sure you’re alive to become the next Magic Keeper.” She pulls out a box of matches. “Here’s lesson number one: do whatever it takes to survive.”_

_Yuuri’s eyes widen as he stares at Minako, feeling almost like it is his first time seeing her. He’s used to seeing Minako when she came to visit the village, sometimes it would be years between her visits, sometimes merely weeks. She would bring trinkets from other kingdoms and tell stories of her travels, but Yuuri never considered what she was like outside of Serenity._

_Minako kneels down and uses the dagger to cut a bundle of grass. Placing the bundle on the back of the man’s corpse, she strikes a match and drops it onto the pile._

_“We can stand here until it lights properly or you can speed it along. It's up to you.”_

_Yuuri swallows around the lump in his throat, staring down at the small flame. He hasn't approached so much as a campfire since leaving Serenity, the thought of telling the fire to get bigger makes his hands tremble. All he can picture is losing control, watching the fire devour the plains until it takes him, as it took his family._

_“Yuuri, you can take your time, but you will have to get past your fear.”_

_Anything it takes to survive, that's what she had said._

_Kneeling down, nose wrinkling at the smell of death, Yuuri reaches out. His fingers hover over the corpse, just shy of the flame, as he tries to slow his rapidly pounding heart._

_Taking a deep breath, Yuuri brings his fingers in contact with the fire and he whispers into the silence, “Grow, please.”_

_Nothing happens._

_“Don't push yourself too hard,” Minako cautions._

_Shaking his head, Yuuri reaches out further, so the palm of his hand is directly over the flame. He takes another breath, eyes narrowing as he focuses on his desires. “Grow, please.”_

_The fire flares up. A hand on the back of his shirt tugs Yuuri away from the flame as it spreads rapidly, consuming the body of the empire soldier. Yuuri continues murmuring under his breath, speaking to the flames, trying to convince them to leave the surrounding land alone, to take the body and nothing else._

_Realistically, Yuuri knows it couldn't have taken more than a handful of minutes for the fire to do its work, but it feels like a lifetime as he wrestles with control, struggling to speak to the flames when their special language used to be second nature._

_When the fire dies down, all that remains of the soldier are ashes and bones. Minako squeezes Yuuri's shoulder gently, pushing a canteen into his hands. "Sit down and drink. I'll handle the rest."_

 

* * *

 

Phichit rises before dawn, something his body is used to out of necessity. With the number of diplomatic trips he makes on a yearly basis, he's always short on time to handle matters closer to home.

After three days on the road, he's unsurprised to note that the cot on the other side of the tent is empty. No matter how early he wakes up, Yuuri already seems to be out and about. Frowning thoughtfully, Phichit gets dressed for the day, strapping on familiar sheathes for the various daggers he favors and pulling on the worn cotton clothes he wears for traveling (his silks safely stowed away for the journey).

Stepping out of the tent, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness of dawn's light, Phichit casts his gaze around his immediate surroundings. A low fire is tended to by several of his closest advisers, a few soldiers walk past on patrol, the rest of the caravan seems to still be rousing from sleep.

He glances sideways to catch the attention of one of the guards that kept watch outside his tent. "Do you know where Yuuri is?"

"Some merchants came by just past midnight nursing wounds from bandits. He went to care for them."

Phichit raises an eyebrow, "Show me to them."

"Right this way, Your Highness."

The guard motions off to the right before setting off through the ordered rows of tents. The encampment is arranged in a circle, with Phichit and those closest to him in the middle and the guard quarters surrounding the outside.

Phichit is led to the outskirts of the camp, where smaller tents had been pitched after he retired for the evening. A few Ayutthayan guards mingle around a fire, speaking with Kievans. At his arrival, the guards pause their conversations to salute, only resuming when Phichit waves them back as they were.

His escort stops next to the closest guard, "The young magus?"

"Just over there," comes the response, as the man points toward a tent off to the side.

Phichit doesn't wait for more information before striding across the distance to pull back the tent flap. Inside he finds Yuuri, as promised, kneeling over a makeshift bed. His hands are steady as he stitches a wound on the occupant's naval, murmuring softly to his patient as he works. Even though Phichit has never possessed the Sight—the ability to See when magical workings are happening—he can feel a calm radiating from Yuuri (no doubt meant to soothe the pain).

He glances around the rest of the tent, there are two other Kievans already sporting bandages and nursing tea, talking to each other. Phichit half-turns to his escort, "How many were injured?"

"Ten, Your Highness. Some worse than others, these were the more minor wounds."

"He's been at this since midnight?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

Shaking his head slightly, Phichit bites back a bemused smile and turns on his heel, leaving Yuuri to his work. He finds Celestino waiting outside the tent, a worn look on his face.

Phichit makes his way over to the older man, tilting his head curiously, "It's too early for you to be looking like that. What's wrong?"

"A messenger arrived five minutes ago, from King Nikiforov."

Glancing over his shoulder briefly, Phichit leads Celestino several meters away from the camp so they can speak privately. "The message?"

Celestino produces a sealed document and hands it over. Turning the paper over in his hands, Phichit asks, "Did you get anything from the messenger?"

"She rode hard," Celestino says, "nearly collapsed from exhaustion after delivering the message. I put her up in a tent to rest and regain her strength, but she insists she'll need to return with your reply promptly. Whatever it is, I must assume it is unpleasant."

Steeling himself, Phichit reaches down, pulling a small dagger from its sheath inside his boot and smashing the seal. Storing the blade, he skims the missive, mouth pressing into a thin line at the implications of the information.

"Highness?"

"King Nikiforov's spies have picked up word that the mage who killed the queen is in service to the Atreides Empire," Phichit says, passing the note, "he writes that it is unlikely an attack will occur until the snows melt, but asks us to consider sending forces to fortify their defense."

Celestino scans the note and lets out a slight sigh, "It was only a matter of time. I am not sure additional troops will make a difference against a Great Mage."

"They won't," Phichit replies, glancing over at the merchant's camp, where he can see Yuuri emerging from a tent. "We would stand a chance against the empire's forces—the mountain pass will force them into a bottleneck—but only another mage could turn the tide against a Great Mage. It was just one message?"

"Yes. There was no note for Yuuri. I had her bags searched after she passed out."

"What a foolish king. He should have sent troops to force Yuuri to stay. We're still in his territory, and Yuuri has lived here long enough for him to be tried for treason if he refused."

"And risk you ordering his soldiers slaughtered for the slight?" Celestino asks.

Phichit scowls, "You know as well as I that I couldn't do that. Hiding Yuuri in my chambers and killing Kievans while on a diplomatic trip are two very different things."

The look Celestino gives him is dubious but the older man (wisely) refrains from commenting. "What are your orders?"

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Phichit considers his options. To refuse aide after just affirming the alliance between the two kingdoms is betrayal, but sending his people to certain death is unthinkable.

"Ayutthaya will not consider sending troops to battle a mage without assurance that the king has some sort of plan of defense against magic," Phichit finally says, "however, it is our wish to see an ally victorious. We will send supplies to ensure Kiev withstands a siege and I will argue on Kiev's behalf in council for naval aide. If we attack the empire along the coasts, the battle may grow too costly for them to commit to long-term. How does that sound?"

Celestino smiles, giving Phichit the same proud expression he used to receive when answering a particularly difficult question during lessons. Sweeping a bow, he says, "Wise beyond your years, my prince. I will have the response drafted immediately."

"Celestino," Phichit stops him before he can get far, "I want this kept quiet."

"Keeping a secret among a court is impossible, Highness, even more so from a mage."

Phichit glances over at the camp again, "I know. I want to be the one to tell him."

"I can buy you a day, perhaps two."

"That's all I need."

The sun is just above the horizon, but Phichit already feels exhausted. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tries to fight back a headache, shoving the concerns about a possible war to the back of his mind.

Once he's sure his emotions are under control, Phichit heads back to the merchant's camp, smiling a greeting at Yuuri. "I heard you've been at this for hours. Did you get any sleep last night?"

Yuuri shrugs, "Some."

The answer isn't convincing in the slightest. Eyes narrowing slightly, Phichit runs his gaze over his friend, noting the bags under Yuuri's eyes and the slight hunch of his posture. Yuuri doesn't flinch under the inspection, looking resigned to questioning, but the plea to move on in his stare isn't unfamiliar to Phichit.

He shakes his head, smile turning wry, "You were born to be a healer, Yuuri. You're always taking care of others first."

"You make me sound more selfless than I am."

Phichit steps forward, wrapping an arm around Yuuri's and pulling him toward the Ayutthayan camp. "It's a good thing you have me to make sure you don't work yourself to death. We're going to find food and you can't argue about it."

A surprised laugh comes from Yuuri, but he moves with Phichit's pull. "I managed just fine all these years without you nannying me, Phichit."

"Something that never ceases to amaze me," Phichit retorts, smirking.

Yuuri nudges him slightly, laughing some more. The smile on Yuuri's face pushes the clear signs of exhaustion to the background. Phichit squeezes slightly on the arm in his grip, bumping shoulders with Yuuri as they walk.

The moment reminds him of their childhood, of when he would drag Yuuri through the corridors of the palace to show him anything and everything Phichit could think of. Phichit's gut churns unpleasantly at the thought of how the news from the capitol will wear on even this sliver of carefree joy he's been able to wheedle out of Yuuri since leaving the castle behind.

It's not the first time that he's wished the two of them had met in a different life, in a time when he didn't have the responsibilities of royalty, and Yuuri didn't have the scars of his childhood to weigh him down.

"Everything okay?" Yuuri's question tugs Phichit from his reverie, "you look worried about something."

Phichit shakes his head, pushing a grin onto his face, "I was just thinking that I missed this."

Warmth fills Yuuri's eyes, and he nods, "I missed this too."

 

* * *

 

“Again!” Viktor’s command cuts through the practice room, his eyes narrowed as his squire immediately resets and jumps into the drill again.

Yuri’s light on his feet, moving through the steps of the sequence with the same speed and intensity as he had the first time he ran the drill, well over twenty minutes ago. Despite his natural inclination for fighting, his size has always worked against him. Being small and slightly in stature is good for a messenger or a spy, not necessarily for a knight.

His sword twirls and comes to a halt, arm extended straight in front of his body, his legs spread in a partial lung. Viktor waits several seconds, gaze fixed on the point of the practice blade, searching for the slightest waver. Yuri holds the sword firm.

Nodding to himself, Viktor says, “Take a break.”

Yuri straightens from his stance, lowering his sword with a slight wince. “Are you trying to work me to death?”

Viktor raises an eyebrow, “I’m training you.”

“You never used to be such an ass about it,” Yuri retorts, crossing the small space to the bench Viktor stands next to, picking up a towel to wipe his forehead. “One day we’re doing normal training and the next you’re working me like you’re on some sort of time limit. What’s going on?”

With a shrug, Viktor casts his gaze around the room. They aren’t alone, this particular training area is one of the larger indoor practice courts in the castle. Other knights drill their squires, a few pages practice with staffs near a wall. The ring of steel and the shouts of drill sequences aren’t quite loud enough for Viktor to believe no one is trying to overhear.

It’s been less than a week since his trip to the northern tower, since learning that war may very well be at his doorstep. Viktor has been preparing as much as he can without causing a panic, reviewing evacuation plans for the towns nearest the border, reading every report Mila has to offer from the south, searching back through the books on mages he once scoured out of curiosity for anything that might give them an advantage. Even with the winter buying them some time, it isn’t enough.

A runner enters the room and stops in front of the pair, bowing quickly before holding out a small note. “Lady Babicheva said it was important you read this immediately, your majesty.”

Accepting the note, Viktor nods his gratitude to the runner before unfolding the small paper. Mila’s rapid scrawl greets him, only two words written on the paper: _found something._

Turning on his heel, Viktor calls over his shoulder, “After your break run through that drill I taught you yesterday. Watch your arm; overextending in a battle will get you killed.”

Whatever Yuri mutters under his breath is certainly not fit for polite society, but Viktor doesn’t pay it any mind as he strides the castle corridors towards his office. Rounding a corner, his stride is broken by a firm grip on his wrist, tugging him sideways through a door and into a room. Viktor doesn’t even pause to see where he is, twisting in the person’s hold to grab them in return and yank their arm around their back, slamming them into the wall.

“Someone is a little wound up,” Mila says, shaking her hair from her face, only wincing slightly at Viktor’s spartan hold.

Cursing under his breath, Viktor lets go of her and steps back, “I told you that one day I would hurt you if you kept doing that.”

Mila turns so she’s facing him, slowly rotating her shoulder as a lazy smile stretches across her face. “I was low on options. This isn’t something I wanted to hand you in front of your scribes. Or anyone, for that matter.”

“You could’ve just told me to visit your office later.”

“Please, I can handle a little rough treatment,” Mila teases, though the hard look in her eyes doesn’t match the lilt of her voice, “and you’re going to be glad I didn’t wait to show you this.”

She reaches into the satchel slung over her shoulders and pulls out a small black book, offering it to Viktor. He takes it and lets it fall open in his hands, eyes widening as he recognizes the curling loops of the penmanship crammed onto the pages. “This is Romanov’s journal.”

“One of my people found it this morning and I started going through it. My plan was to give you a briefing on the important parts of his notes before I got to the last things he wrote before he died.”

Turning the notebook over, Viktor riffles through the pages from the back, skipping over blank space until he sees ink again. The pages are dated and numbered, a meticulous quality to them that Viktor is unsurprised to see. What does surprise him is Yuuri’s name, cropping up a vast number of times among the last piece of Romanov’s notes.

Glancing up at Mila, Viktor opens his mouth to ask, but she cuts him off with a shake of her head. “Just read it.”

Dropping his gaze back to the page, Viktor shifts so he can lean against the wall as he reads.

_[277.ND431] A young man was brought to tend for the queen in my place. The crown prince claims him to be a healer, though where he found a healer, and why he would trust one with the queen’s care is yet to be disclosed. The ‘healer’ has black hair and brown eyes, rather timid, but something about him sets me on edge. Will monitor to ensure he does not jeopardize the queen’s health._

_[279.ND431] It seems the queen is recovering, though I cannot say if it is the work of the healer. His name is Yuuri, and he comes from a small village near the Eastern border. No one seems to know much about him. I cannot shake the feeling that he is hiding something important._

_[281.ND431] I have failed in my duty to her majesty. There is nothing quite so shameful as seeing her struck down with magic, and I as witness without the ability to save her. I was powerless to do anything but watch as a mage attacked the banquet, the sheer strength required for such an attack is almost frightening. If the young healer had not been present, Kiev might have fallen._

_On the subject of the healer, Yuuri, he spoke in my defense before the new king and I could not help but be reminded of Hiroko in that moment. I almost wonder if, perhaps, he might be her son. The Katsuki heir here, of all places, is beyond absurd it almost makes me laugh, but the magnitude of his power, the way he confronted the king…it is almost too much to be a coincidence. Perhaps-_

The entries end there, Viktor does not have to do much work to imagine what occurred next: a knock on the door, the arrival of a broken-hearted lover. The entry doesn’t have to be finished. It’s damning enough.

Looking up from the notebook, Viktor already sees the answer in Mila’s eyes, but he asks anyway, “Do you think Ilya’s theory was correct?”

“Ilya Romanov was a clever man,” Mila says, her words slow, “he grew up in the mage village where Katsuki Hiroko lived. He must have been familiar with their family.”

“If he was so familiar, why would it take him so long to recognize Yuuri?”

“He’s presumed dead.”

Viktor scowls, “You’re the one who said Romanov was clever, Mila, that’s more of a reason for the suspicion to arise earlier.”

Mila shrugs, “You met the Katsukis. You should be able to tell me if there’s any weight to Romanov’s theory. What do you remember?”

His scowl deepens and he begins pacing, “I didn’t know I had met them until I spoke with my mother about Yuuri. I can’t remember a damned thing, I was young.”

“Not that young. Not young enough to forget everything. Maybe you just don’t want to remember.”

Viktor tosses Mila a glare, “Believe me, I’ve tried to remember.”

She doesn’t look impressed, “Try harder. We’re looking at a war, we need this kind of information.”

“And what if he is? That doesn’t make me any more inclined to ask him to fight.”

An exasperated sigh is her response. “Look, I get that you like Yuuri, but he’s one man. You’re _king_ , Viktor, you can’t place the feelings of one man above the safety of all of your subjects.”

“He told me he wasn’t a Katsuki.”

“You’ve both lied to each other.”

Viktor comes to a halt right in front of Mila, “The last time I asked about the Katsukis was the night before he left, when I had no more secrets to keep from him, and given that he has no plans to ever come back I find it hard to believe he would tell me how he lost his family and lie to me about who they were in the same breath.”

Mila lets out a slow breath, visibly biting back several dozen responses before she settles with, “Who are you trying to convince, Viktor? Me or you?”

He glances at the opposite wall, jaw clenching momentarily before he regains control of his temper. “Did you find anything else?”

“We’re still looking. I’ll have the brief on the most important details ready for you within a week. If you’ll excuse me?”

Viktor waves Mila away, giving himself a few minutes in the privacy of the empty room to sort through the turmoil of his emotions. His fingers run over the binding of the notebook, not willing to believe that the last conversation he had with Yuuri might have been marred with more lies. The deep pain he had witnessed in Yuuri’s gaze had been heart-wrenching, the words left Yuuri’s mouth with emotions Viktor had never heard in all of the times he begged Yuuri to tell him a story.

Letting his eyes flutter shut, Viktor tries (not for the first time) to recall the trip south that seems to have been wiped from his memory. As always, he can recall the journey out of Kiev, riding abreast with his mother, practicing his sword drills while she gave him tips about his stance. He can vaguely picture the forest where the village sat, can picture the small party riding through dense trees until the wilderness gave way to a clearing, and then…nothing. He can’t remember anything that happened in the village.

With a sigh, Viktor spares one more look back down at the page of notes, tapping his finger on the last entry. Somehow the deceased mage managed to seem both sure and unsure of his guess about Yuuri’s identity.

Not for the first time, Viktor wishes Romanov wasn’t dead, wishes he was able to ask the question that makes uncertainty prickle through his body. Viktor wants to know how much Romanov remembered about the Katsukis, if the mage had the same problem with his memory when it came to that particular family.

Mila was right, he had been old enough during that visit that he should remember more of the details. The fact that he can’t remember any of them feels important, gives Viktor the sense that he should be trying even harder to remember.

Snapping the notebook shut, Viktor shoves the doubt to the back of his mind, locking it away with all the other fears that keep him awake late into the night. When he strides out of the room and into the palace corridor, his face is set, not so much as a splinter in his resolve is visible.

For now, he has to be king. Somehow, it’s both the least and the most he can do.

 

* * *

 

_He's dreaming._

_Yuuri knows he's dreaming because he left the palace behind, rode away from Kiev's capital, waved goodbye to the kingdom's monarch. As he walks through the abandoned corridors of the castle, the thick layer of fog that pools around his feet is otherworldly; the air is stale, as if no one has passed through the halls in centuries. It feels like he's walking through a relic, a monument to a civilization long gone._

_The sound of his footsteps echo around him, his breathing is cacophonous in the silence. Yuuri's palms are sweaty. Of the five nights he's been on the road, riding toward the docks and back to Ayutthaya he has not had a single dream: he's had nightmares._

_Despite his better judgment, Yuuri's mouth opens, calling out into the emptiness around him. "Hello? Is anyone there? Viktor? Yurio?"_

_No one replies._

_He hears another set of footsteps, and he peers into the shadows of the corridor before him. Fog parts to reveal a gray wolf nearly the size of a horse. A bloodied socket is all that remains of the right eye, and Yuuri can vividly picture the sword thrust that caused the wound._

_Tearing his stare away from the socket, Yuuri meets a sharp gaze. The wolf is looking directly at Yuuri, its left eye keen on his face. There's such an intelligence to the animal that Yuuri would be unsurprised if words began to flow from its muzzle._

_The wolf’s ears flick back and it turns, walking forward a few steps before stopping and looking back, is if making sure Yuuri is following. Yuuri's feet move of their own volition, trailing just behind the wolf as it trots through the halls of the castle as if it has a destination in mind._

_Nothing about their surroundings changes. Despite the fact that Yuuri places one foot in front of the other, he's not entirely sure that he's moving at all. It's impossible to tell how much time passes before the wolf stops in front of a door and presses its nose to the handle._

_Unspoken message clearly received, Yuuri reaches out and turns the handle, sparing one last glance at the wolf before stepping inside._

_He walks into a bedchamber. Viktor is lying on the bed, his skin pale and face sickly thin. Yuuri rushes across the room to stand at the side of the bed, reaching out to brush his fingers over Viktor's forehead as he had done so often for Viktor's mother._

_At his touch, feverish blue eyes blink open, and Viktor frowns. "Yuuri? What are you doing here?"_

_"You're sick," Yuuri mumbles in lieu of answering, glancing around for his kit, "let me help."_

_"Yuuri." Viktor's tone borders on a plea, and Yuuri's eyes snap directly to Viktor's. "Why did you lie?"_

_Yuuri's blood turns to ice at the question, his heart pounds in his chest. "What do you mean?"_

_"You could have saved us if you hadn't lied. You're supposed to be the Magic Keeper."_

_Shaking his head, Yuuri backs away from the bed. "I don't know what you're talking about."_

_Flames creep up the four posts of the bed, starting small and growing rapidly as they devour sheets and bedding. Viktor is completely oblivious to the danger, eyes fixed directly on Yuuri, a look of devastation, of betrayal, etched onto his features._

_Heat flares at Yuuri's back and he whirls around, yelping at the sight of the rest of the room completely aflame. Rushing back to the bed, he yanks away the bedding and tugs at Viktor's arm. "We need to get out of here!"_

_"Why did you lie, Yuuri?"_

Yuuri blinks his eyes open, staring dully at the ceiling of the tent he shares with Phichit, letting his breathing even out as he tries to push back the terror of his latest nightmare. Sitting upright, Yuuri pulls on the boots settled at the side of his cot, moving silently and paying careful attention to the shallow breaths from the other cot.

He blindly pulls out a tunic from his bags, tugging it on over his undershirt before clipping on a cloak, leaving his glasses behind. When he slips out of the tent, neither guard on duty looks surprised to see him awake.

The moon is still high in the sky, Yuuri estimates he has four hours or so until dawn.

No one is awake beside those on duty. Soldiers on patrol nod politely as he passes, but not a word is exchanged. By now they've grown used to Yuuri's nightly wanderings, and few people think twice about seeing a mage about in the dead of night.

Finding a patch of grass on the outskirts of the camp, Yuuri takes a seat facing west, legs crossed underneath him. Around him, the earth glitters a deep green; in the distance, he can occasionally see a flash of a brighter green—animals going about their nightly routines. Tilting his head back, Yuuri seeks out the moon, letting the comforting white glow chase away the vestiges of his uneasiness.

His hands drop gently, palms down, to rest on top of his knees. Yuuri keeps his face turned to the moon as his eyes flutter shut.

Taking a deep inhale, Yuuri pushes away the noises of nature around him.

Exhaling, he dives into his dreamscape.

 

* * *

 

When Yuuri opens his eyes, the sun is peeking above the horizon. Soft humming pulls his gaze to the right, where Phichit is sprawled on the grass next to him. A pile of documents is secured under a rock and Phichit makes notes in a small ledger, his legs kicking lazily behind him.

“When did the nightmares start?” Phichit asks, as casual as if he’s referring to the time of day, eyes not even flicking up from his work.

Yuuri sighs, “I’ve always had nightmares, Phichit.”

“You can’t bullshit me, Yuuri, I know you better than that,” Phichit retorts, pulling another document from his pile to squint at a line before making a note. “You know that I was asking when you started having them every night.”

Despite the unpleasant topic of conversation, Yuuri’s lips twist into a wry grin at the response. Sometimes he forgets how well Phichit knows him. “They started the first night after we left.”

“Please tell me it’s not a guilty conscience.”

With a shrug, Yuuri stretches his legs out in front of him, wincing as his muscles protest the movement, “I think it’s something more than that. Whoever is after the Nikiforovs knows who I am, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re trying to chase me out of the kingdom.”

That catches Phichit’s attention, his eyes flicking up to meet Yuuri’s, “They know who you are?”

“At the banquet, I was sloppy when I protected Yuri from the attack. The mage called me Katsuki.” His voice is even as he describes the moment that’s been featured prominently in his nightmares for the past week.

“Do you know who they are?”

“No idea.”

With deliberate movements, Phichit snaps his ledger closed, places all of his papers back in their pile, and rolls onto his back, brow furrowed in thought, as he stares up at the lightening sky. “This is a mess.”

The comment pulls a burst of laughter from Yuuri, “Tell me about it.”

They sit in a companionable silence, Phichit staring up at the sky as it bleeds pinks and oranges into blue, Yuuri staring out at the wilderness before him.

Yuuri can feel a weight to the silence, as if there’s something Phichit needs to say, but is sorting out how he wants to say it. Instead of pressing for information, Yuuri turns his attention inward, to the rush of magic he feels flowing through his veins, more active now that it had been for the last thirteen years. While Yuuri would have preferred to stay hidden away in his quiet corner of Kiev, the fact that a powerful mage knows who he is, and has violent intentions, means Yuuri can’t afford to be complacent any longer.

Being truly in tune with his magic after so many years of only using it in small spurts is invigorating. Yuuri feels like he has lightning in his veins, crackling underneath his skin, waiting for the perfect time to strike.

“I never thought I’d see the day when you stopped hiding your magic,” Phichit finally says, glancing over at Yuuri, “you feel.... massive.”

“Only another mage would notice,” Yuuri points out, “and I wouldn’t say I’m done hiding, exactly.”

There’s no indication of what Phichit thinks about that response. His eyes rove Yuuri’s face, as if searching for something that will make his next words easier. “I received a letter from Nikiforov yesterday.” Yuuri’s eyes widen and he opens his mouth to ask a question, but Phichit keeps talking. “He is requesting that Ayutthaya send troops to fortify Kiev’s defenses. He believes the Atreides Empire has finally turned its sights north.”

Yuuri shifts so he’s facing Phichit directly, “Will you send troops?”

“Not outright.”

Frowning, Yuuri replies, “But Kiev is your ally, why would you want them to be conquered by the Atreides Empire?”

“We don’t want them conquered,” Phichit admits, “but the safety of my people come first. Yuuri, he believes that mage is working with the empire.”

The words feel like a blow to the gut. Yuuri’s breath hitches, his pulse quickening as he considers the statement. “The Great Mage is working for the Atreides Empire?”

“At the very least they are working to weaken Kiev against an impending invader.”

Yuuri’s mind races back through the handful of times he experienced the magnitude of power the mage possesses. Even though he knows danger is not imminent, Yuuri can’t help the shudder that runs down his spine. “They’ll be wiped out.”

“I know.”

“He only asked for troops?” Yuuri asks, “he must know that’s not enough.”

Phichit sighs, “I think he is clever enough to know, but he’s never witnessed the full extent of the havoc a Great Mage can cause, he may think he can fight back.” There’s a pause. “I can send a rider to warn Minako, she may change her mind about staying here with this news.”

“Minako can handle herself,” Yuuri murmurs, and he means it, but his mind turns to the other people he’s left behind. To Yuuko and Takeshi, how much they had desperately longed for children before finally succeeding; to Yurio, who doubtlessly would ride into a war without flinching; to Viktor, a king forced to defend his crown—even if Yuuri could somehow help get the others to safety he knows Viktor would never abandon his duty as king.

His thoughts must be plain on his face because Phichit sits up, voice flat, “He didn’t ask for your help, Yuuri.”

“He should have,” Yuuri says, “I don’t know if he’s trying to protect me or he thinks I don't care or he doesn’t think I’d do any good, but he should have. I have to go back.”

“Go back? You’d be riding into a war, you could be riding to your death. You haven’t fought another magic user before, you’ve been hiding for over a decade. If you’re just doing this for him-”

“I’m not,” Yuuri cuts Phichit off, hands curling to grip the fabric of his trousers, trying to prevent them from trembling at the realization of what he plans to do. “There’s a mage out there destroying lives and I might be the only one who can stop them. Viktor may not always know what to do and he’s made mistakes, but he didn’t turn his back on his duties, I did. I’m done running from this, Phichit.”

Phichit drops his gaze, looking at the ground for several agonizing moments before he sighs. When he looks back up, a small smile is on his lips, “I figured you would say that, even if I hoped you wouldn’t. I’ll send one of my people with you, to be a delegate for the battle preparations. And with you providing magical support I might even be able to talk father into pledging more troops.”

Phichit’s support takes a weight from Yuuri’s shoulders, and he nods, relieved. “Thank you.”

“Do me a favor, Yuuri?”

“Anything.”

“Don’t get yourself killed.” Phichit reaches out, pinky finger held up in an offering. Yuuri meets him halfway, locking their fingers together as they did when they were children. “You’re going to be an amazing Magic Keeper, and I’ll never forgive you if you die before I get to witness it.”

Yuuri smiles, “I promise.”

He leans forward, pressing his lips to rest on his thumb, sealing the promise.

 

* * *

 

Cold nips at noses and fingers, creeping under the bright steel of polished armor to settle deep in bones. Breath leaves his lips as a cloud of smoke, and he tilts his head slightly, watching it dissipate in the early morning.

It’s almost silent. There’s a sort of stillness about him that precedes a harsh winter. Time is not on his side, the window of opportunity to act is small, but it’s difficult not to take a moment to revel in the beauty surrounding him.

Mountains rise at his back, caging him in on three sides while the road leads directly down into a valley. Trees line the road, magnificent evergreens with dew glistening on their needles. It’s quaint, picturesque; it is easy to see why the village is nestled in the valley despite its proximity to the mountain pass.

Footsteps draw his attention down the road to where the advanced scout trots out of the tree line to salute next to his horse. “All is quiet, just as anticipated, sir.”

Nodding thoughtfully, he wheels his horse to look at the rider adjacent. A black cloak covers their body, a hood hiding their head and (thankfully) shadowing their face. “And what of your inspection? Is there anything to be concerned of?”

 The figure shifts in their saddle, the opening of the hood turning to look directly at him. As always, the words are not spoken aloud but echo directly in his skull.

_They are unprepared. My time to act will come later._

“Of course they’re unprepared. Peace has dulled their edge.” A smirk curls on his lips as he looks back down at the village. “Today will mark the end of the Nikiforov Dynasty, of Kiev and its _rich_ history.”

He draws his sword from its sheath at his side and holds it aloft, point directed at his target. “Give the order to attack. I want no one left alive.”

The scout bows and rushes past his horse, up the slight incline and around the crop of rocks that create such a convenient blind spot for an ambitious conqueror. A horn sounds, cutting through the quiet of the morning, and his heart pounds in excitement at the responding uproar of battle cries.

Turning his horse to the side, Prince Menelaus’ breath catches in his chest at the pure beauty of the sight that greets him. The splendor of the Atreides Empire bursts from where they had been hidden behind the outcrop at the foot of the mountain pass, charging forward in disciplined lines. They part around him, riding down into the valley as alarm bells ring out from the village.

His laughter rises above the screams of the unsuspecting villagers and he urges his own horse forward, eager to join in the chaos.

The valley will run red when he is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some Worldbuilding Notes:**
> 
> **Who is Minako?:** She's a badass, that's who. It's been briefly mentioned that she used to be a traveling player. In that capacity, she learned how to defend herself so her troupe wouldn't require as many guards/mercenaries and so that she could travel solo when she felt the desire. As with most other players she traveled with, she was also a competent thief.
**[277.ND431]:** The dating system Ilya used in his notes is standard throughout this verse. The first number refers to the day of the year (the 277th), the two letters refer to the kingdom's era (Nikiforov Dynasty), and the final number is the year of that era. So, in words, Ilya wrote: the 277th day of the 431st year of the Nikiforov Dynasty. Yes, the Nikiforovs have been around for a while.

> 
> Chapter Songs: _Silhouette_ by Aquilo. _Silent Running- Epic Trailer Version_ by Hidden Citizens.


	15. cry of war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiev prepares for war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back! Thank you for continuing to stick with me through this ride that has turned out to be much larger than I, for one, anticipated. In response to a few comments on the last chapter and some new terminology in the current chapter I have made a page on my blog with maps of this world. Right now I just have some quick sketches I threw together so they would be ready for the update, but I plan to replace them with some higher quality images soon.
> 
> **[Click here to see the world maps.](https://lovingnikiforov.tumblr.com/ee)**
> 
>  **Listen to the[Fic Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq) on Spotify.** This chapter: song #13

“I know I said I’m supporting you and everything but I cannot believe you are actually doing this,” Phichit mumbles.

Glancing over at where Phichit is perched on the edge of his cot, Yuuri pauses packing and offers a shaky smile. “I’m having a hard time believing it too, but this is what I need to do.”

Phichit runs a hand through his hair, looking like he wants to say something. Eventually, he lets out a sigh and shakes his head. “This is a Great Mage, Yuuri, a Great Mage. Whoever they are, they probably had decades of training and they clearly know how to kill people. Not to discount your power, but you’ve been spending all of your time healing people for over a decade.”

Yuuri shrugs, turning back to the array of supplies on his bed. When he packed his belongings for the journey to Ayutthaya, he had been able to bring much more than he can carry now. He’s spent the last hour carefully deciding what he needs to have with him: taking into account the coming winter and the likelihood that his magic may be needed in far greater quantities than he’s used to dispensing.

“Remember when Minako would tutor us at night?” Yuuri asks, holding up a vial to the light and squinting at its contents to determine how much longer the potion will last.

“I think I still have bruises from when she would toss me on my ass, how could I forget?” Phichit replies with a snort, “besides, that training let me weasel out of dealing with those lumbering swords once father saw I could hold my own in a fight.”

“Well, she kept teaching me even after we moved here. Minako doesn’t know a lot about the theory behind other types of magical workings, but she taught me how to use my magic to survive.” Yuuri drops the vial back on the bed and reaches for a tightly wrapped handkerchief, he stuffs it into his pack without hesitation, “I know more than how to heal people, Phichit.”

“But this is war, Yuuri,” Phichit counters, “you’ll have to kill people if you’re really going to make a difference.”

With a sigh of his own, Yuuri turns away from the cot to meet Phichit’s gaze, “You’ve killed people.”

Normally lively brown eyes flatten at the statement but Phichit’s voice is lighthearted as he says, “For self-defense. When bandits attack our caravan or pirates come after our ship, I don’t have a choice.”

Raising an eyebrow, Yuuri says, “I lost my home when I was ten and every time I’ve traveled it’s been just me and Minako. Do you really think I’ve never killed anyone before?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the tent, Phichit’s eyes widening. For a long time, neither of them speaks, Yuuri doesn’t even dare move a muscle. His stomach flutters—the words had left his lips before he could even consider them. Of course Phichit assumes he’s never killed before, Yuuri did a lot of work to keep those moments in his life far from the light.

“When?” Phichit’s question is little more than a whisper.

Shrugging, Yuuri gingerly sits on the corner of his cot and lists, “When we were fleeing from Yamatai, when we would travel during the rainy season, when we moved to Kiev. It was just two travelers, a child and a woman; any thief with sense would take a chance on us.”

Phichit swears softly before saying, “I wish life had been kinder to you.”

That pulls a laugh from Yuuri, “It’s not life, it’s just how people are. Humans are so...” he trails off, eyes flicking toward the ceiling as he searches for the word, “single-minded. It’s you or them, if someone wins then someone else has to lose.”

“It’s always weird when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk about humanity like you’re not a part of it,” Phichit muses, leaning back on his hands as the somber mood starts to fade away, “maybe don’t do it as much around Nikiforov, it might freak him out.”

Rolling his eyes, Yuuri gets back on his feet and resumes packing. “I’m always careful with my words around him.”

“I’m sure.” The two words drip with sarcasm, and Yuuri shoots a look at Phichit over his shoulder that has the younger man raising his hands, palms out, in an expression of innocence.

“Your Highness, I’ve brought Lee.” Celestino’s voice filters from outside the tent flaps.

“Bring him in.”

Sunlight floods the tent, bringing a gust of wind that makes the temperature drop slightly. Yuuri stuffs a few more items in his pack as Celestino and Phichit descend into a rapid conversation. He only pays half-a-mind to their discussion, catching snippets of words about supplies and needing to move the caravan soon.

Yuuri’s closing his pack when Phichit speaks up louder, “Yuuri, I mentioned sending someone with you, this is Seung-gil.”

Turning around, Yuuri smiles at the young man he’s only caught glimpses of during his time with the Ayutthayan delegation, “Nice to meet you.”

Dark gray eyes study Yuuri, seeming to size him up, before Seung-gil nods curtly without a word.

Slightly bewildered, Yuuri glances at Phichit, who looks amused at the awkward meeting. “Seung-gil is from Silla, we met him on a diplomatic trip, three years back, and he’s been in my service since.”

“He’ll be your delegate to Kiev?” Yuuri asks, trying not to make his reservations at the idea of this man representing the Chulanonts in any sort of diplomatic fashion too obvious.

“One of the smartest men I’ve ever met,” Phichit hums, eyes twinkling in a way that tells Yuuri he wasn’t quite successful in masking his doubt, “Nikiforov would do good to listen if Seung-gil has anything to say about strategy. More than that, if you end up having to flee, he’ll get you to the harbor in one piece.”

Yuuri wants to protest the last part of Phichit’s explanation, wants to point out that Yuuri’s safety should not take priority in deciding the Ayutthayan delegate, but he knows the glint in Phichit’s gaze well. Regardless of how easily Phichit buckled when it came to Yuuri turning back, Yuuri knows that nothing he can say will get Phichit to back down in this particular matter.

Resigned, he merely smiles at his friend, “I suppose we should head out soon.”

 

* * *

 

There is really no good reason for the throne to be the focal point of the Kievan council chambers. Despite the trio of lords in the middle of the floor—taking turns expanding on a resolution that Viktor mentally dismissed fifteen minutes into their speech—there's no doubt that most of the attention within the chamber is focused on him.

Occasionally, he lets his gaze stray from the speakers to study the rest of the council. It's almost unnerving how many of those present meet his stare with blank faces, their thoughts impossible to discern.

Viktor knows that he comes across just as difficult to read. Swathed in some of his best court attire, crown perched on his head, Viktor doesn't think he's moved more than his eyes for the better part of the last thirty minutes. His chin is propped up by his left hand, elbow situated firmly on the armrest of the rigidly uncomfortable throne he's forced to inhabit until the session comes to an end.

Stifling a sigh, Viktor tries to zone back into the speech, but it's difficult to care about something as trivial as arbitrarily changing what constitutes a Kievan citizen when the possibility of a war is breathing down his neck, when the journal of his deceased court mage has kept him awake late into the night (trying to remember a diplomatic trip over a decade passed), when the Ayutthayan prince's response for his request of aid was so much less than he had hoped but exactly what he expected.

He doesn't have time to be here.

It's difficult not to fidget. The rule of the chambers gives speakers all the time they wish once acknowledged by the crown. Viktor has no viable excuse for cutting the droning off but sitting underneath the gaze of the most influential individuals in his kingdom means he certainly can't let his eyes flutter shut, can't allow himself to slip for so much as a second.

A side door opens, and Viktor flicks his attention over to the young woman who enters. She moves quickly but silently, slipping through the rows of seats with such ease that he doubts half of the council even realizes she's among them. The woman kneels next to Mila, murmuring a few words before handing over a folded note.

Curiosity now piqued, Viktor's eyes narrow as he watches Mila unfold the note.

Her eyes widen and she looks up, immediately catching his gaze with something akin to fear on her face. Viktor feels his stomach churn: Mila is practically unflappable. The spymaster dismisses the woman and gets to her feet, sidling through the seats, clearly on a mission to reach the dais.

Mila's progress around the chamber is disrupted by a commotion outside the main doors. They fly open, cutting off the droning of the speakers and drawing every eye to the entrance.

A soldier stumbles into the chamber, covered in dirt and clearly exhausted: this is a man that rode hard over a long distance. Murmurs break out throughout the council room as the soldier makes his way to the center of the room, face set, determination wrought in every line of his body. The soldier stops just before the dais and all but collapses to one knee, breathing heavily.

Viktor glances back at Mila, who is frozen in place, hand clenched over the crumpled note in her clasp. Her jaw is tight as she glares at the soldier, scanning the room before she meets Viktor's gaze and gives a minute shake of her head.

Understanding the silent message—whatever news the soldier has should not be shared here—Viktor opens his mouth, but the words on the tip of his tongue are beaten by the soldier's voice silencing every murmur in the chamber.

"The Atreides Empire has crossed the mountain pass. The village at the base of the pass has been destroyed and the Atreides vanguard rides North, toward the capital."

No one speaks.

Viktor blinks down at the man, convinced he must have misheard. “The guards along the mountain pass did not report movements from their posts.” The soldier drops Viktor’s gaze, leaving Viktor to glance back over at Mila, desperate for some kind of explanation.

The scowl etched on her face vanishes once Viktor’s attention turns to her and she bows, “Information has just reached me on this matter. Would your majesty like to be briefed privately?”

He raises his right hand, rubbing briefly at his temples to fight back an impending headache at the realization that, despite it being well within his prerogative to request a private briefing, doing so would enrage at least half the council.

“We hold the members of this chamber in the highest esteem. Share your information, Lady Babicheva.”

She straightens, “My agents have found that all the posts along the southern pass are in control of the Atreides Empire. It is unclear if any of our soldiers survived the Empire's advance.”

The council chamber bursts into chaos. Nobles, scholars, and soldiers all on their feet, speaking over each other, shouting questions at Mila and the messenger. Panic underlies all of their words, some voices bordering on frantic at the knowledge that war is not merely impending, but that it has already begun.

Viktor can sympathize with their terror. He has woken from sleep in the dead of the night, chased by dreams of this kingdom crumbling around him, but if he joins in their panic, Kiev is as good as lost.

Steeling himself, he rises to his feet, cutting a harsh gaze around the chamber until it is silent once more.

“Were there any among us that truly believed Kiev would be untouched by the greed of the Atreides Empire?” Viktor asks, voice carrying through the room, echoing in the circular space. “For those so desperate for power that they will destroy everything in their path, the only way their advice will stop is if someone comes forward to halt them in their tracks. The expansion of the Atreides Empire will end here.” He pauses as if waiting for someone to disagree, knowing that even his worst critics would find no reason to voice dissension here.

There is nowhere to run. Nearly a third of Kiev’s population boasts refugees and immigrants who fled from the wars that led to the conquering of all other sovereign nations on the continent. Beyond Kiev to the North are mountains few can survive in, to the West are the waters that lead to Ayutthaya and beyond it, more sea than any man has ever crossed.

With a firm nod, Viktor steps forward, slowly descending the dais as he continues. “They have already overplayed their hand, even if the snows arrive late in the year, they will come. Soldiers from the desert will be unprepared for the Kievan winter, while our people will fortify our defenses and be rejuvenated to drive the invaders from our land. Kiev will not bend, we will not break, we will not fall.”

He comes to a stop next to the soldier and offers a hand. The man’s eyes widen, staring at the white glove of Viktor’s court attire before gingerly accepting. Viktor pulls the soldier to his feet, “Someone get this man some food, water, and rest. We will hear his report in more detail when he is cared for. Lady Babicheva…”

A servant rushes forward, ushering the soldier back toward the entrance as Viktor shifts so he can see Mila once again. The earlier frustration has cleared from her face, a light in her eyes that Viktor associates with when she was tasked with a difficult problem in her training and determined to solve it.

“Sire?”

“We require more information: how many are riding with the empire, the makeup of the vanguard, how fast they are moving. This must be gathered quickly.” Mila bows and strides from the chamber, Viktor turns on his heel. “Sir Feltsman, prepare the knights and our eldest squires for battle.” Yakov gives a salute and follows Mila out the door.

Viktor casts his gaze around the room, searching for anyone who might become a problem before adding, “For the rest, we must evacuate the villages in the empire’s path. Sound the alarm and have soldiers sent to aid in the evacuation. To those who hold land near our capital or the ports, prepare to shelter those who flee. A general muster will be raised before the sun is set, those who have been trained for our reserves are to report to the capitol without delay. We have no time to hesitate, these matters need to be tended to immediately. Unless anyone has reason to speak...?” Viktor pauses, glancing at the three previous speakers who all dip into bows before waiting to see if anyone else objects.

When he’s met with pale faces and wide eyes, Viktor sets off toward the exit of the chambers, calling over his shoulders, “We thank you for your counsel, this session is dismissed.”

The council chambers ring shut behind him, and Viktor strides down the corridors, already running figures and plans through his head. If the prince of the Atreides Empire is bloodthirsty for a war, then it is a war Viktor will provide.

 

* * *

 

_It's still early. Rays of sunlight peak over the horizon to give Yuuri just enough light to work with. The soil underneath his knees is damp, wetness seeps through his trousers and dirt clings to his skin as he works diligently, a small smile on his lips._

_Outside, planting season has long passed. Outside, the climate of the northern kingdom is much too harsh for the temperamental flowers starting to bloom. Yuuri doesn't have to worry about that here: as long as he continues to care for the garden, it will flourish._

_Satisfied with his progress for the day, Yuuri pushes himself to his feet. Bird calls float toward him, the animals responsible always just out of sight, both hidden in the slowly restoring forest and not quite existent in his personal sanctuary._

_The tools Yuuri had been using vanish into thin air as he turns from the patch of flowers he was tending to. Around him, the spiral garden is once again thriving. It took Yuuri the better part of an entire day to clear the garden of barbed weeds, his fingers still hold phantom aches from the harsh work. In their place, bright pockets of yellows, pinks, and oranges peek out through the grass._

_He steps back onto the pebble path and makes his way to the center of the clearing. The stone garden bed has been the center of his focus for the last couple days. The lower two tiers—once just a mass of dry dirt and weeds—have been cleared and filled with fresh soil. Potted flowers sit around the base of the bed, waiting to be replanted as Yuuri works his way around the garden in small sections._

_Another glance at the horizon tells him there’s not enough time to work on this project today, so he steps into the indent of the garden bed. He drops a hand to rest at the base of the small tree’s trunk and he smiles at the bonsai._

_A long time ago, his mother told him speaking out loud in his dreamscape was redundant. By virtue of it being a physical manifestation of his magic, of being inherently intertwined with the state of his mind, anything he thinks is as good as spoken words. As a child, Yuuri found it easier to talk out loud anyway, and he finds the habit helps center his purpose._

_Now, he runs his fingers up the trunk of the tree, pleased to feel the old strength of the bonsai is steadily returning, “You look well.”_

_Warmth pulses under his fingertips, making his smile grow. As he shifts his attention to specific branches, adjusting the few wires he applied to help the tree restore its old shape, Yuuri marvels at the feeling of the reddish bark under his touch. Everywhere he touches he can feel minute prickles as if static surges through the veins of his tree._

_This is the epicenter of his magic, and Yuuri can feel the depth of its power more clearly now than he thinks he ever has before._

_“We’re going to be fighting another mage,” Yuuri mumbles, chatting absently as he works. “I’m…worried that I ignored my practice and you for so long.”_

_There’s no reply—even in his dreamscape, trees do not talk—but warmth surges to the location of Yuuri’s touch once more, and he pats the tree’s trunk._

_“The other mage is strong, and they always feel so determined to kill Viktor.” His movements falter, voice dropping to a barely audible whisper, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to protect him.”_

_A rush of wind rises at Yuuri’s back, causing burgundy leaves to flutter, and he glances over his shoulder. It’s still early outside, but he supposes it should be no surprise that his traveling companion is an early riser._

_Slightly disappointed that his time has been cut short, Yuuri turns back to the maple, fingers reaching to his side and closing around the handle of a watering tin as it materializes next to him. Quickly, he waters the tree and offers a bow._

_When he straightens, his dreamscape fades around him, and Yuuri shifts his attention outward._

The crackling of a fire is the first thing he registers in the physical world, and Yuuri blinks rapidly a few times to adjust to the lack of sunlight around him. With winter coming, the hours of daylight in Kiev are shortening rapidly. Despite it likely being near six in the morning, the first rays of sunlight are just starting to filter from behind the mountains.

Seung-gil kneels next to the fire, watching the meat currently roasting over the flames. With a frown, Yuuri puts on his glasses and slowly gets to his feet, biting back a groan as stiff muscles complain.

“If we leave in the next hour, we should reach a small town by nightfall.” After a day of riding in near silence next to the other man, Yuuri’s adjusted to the fact that Seung-gil seems only to speak when necessary.

“Right.” He drops to a crouch next to the fire, studying the rabbit on the spit, “did you catch that this morning?”

“You looked like you wouldn’t be moving for a while.” Yuuri glances around, wondering how exactly Seung-gil managed to snare a rabbit in the dark. Gray eyes flick up to study Yuuri, cataloging Yuuri’s confusion, and Seung-gil shrugs, “I have the Sight.”

Caught completely off-guard, Yuuri yelps, “You have magic?”

Seung-gil raises an eyebrow at Yuuri’s surprise. “Not like you or His Highness, just the Sight. It was passed down in my family for generations. I assumed you had noticed.”

“I’ve been a bit preoccupied,” Yuuri mumbles, but now that he knows what he’s looking for, he can See just a glimmer of light in Seung-gil. If he missed that, he wonders how much help he’ll really be to Viktor.

As if reading his mind, Seung-gil says, “Being preoccupied will get you killed.”

The blunt statement shocks Yuuri into silence, and he stares as Seung-gil pulls the rabbit from the fire. With efficient movements, the young man carves the meat, portioning it onto two plates before handing one to Yuuri.

Yuuri accepts the meal and eats it in silence, barely noticing the taste as he considers Seung-gil. From how Phichit had introduced him, Yuuri assumed Seung-gil was present as a fighter, more of Yuuri’s personal bodyguard than anything else. However, much like himself, there’s clearly more to the man than meets the eye.

They move out within the hour—taking down camp and getting the horses saddled quickly. The small campsite is fading from view before the sun is fully above the horizon.

Just like the previous day, the journey passes mostly in silence as they ride abreast. Seung-gil navigates with one hand, the other resting on the strung longbow on his lap as he scouts their surroundings. Yuuri spends most of the day sneaking glances at his companion, torn between berating himself for being unable to notice the man's ability sooner and intrigue at how Seung-gil seems to use his enhanced vision much more constantly than anyone Yuuri's met before.

Objectively, Yuuri's aware that different peoples found ways to use magic in ways that are unique to their culture. His mother told him stories of Ayutthayan fishers who used their magic to enchant their lines, drawing fish toward them; of Helvetian warbands that thickened fog over the plains to launch stealth attacks; of shamans in the mountains charming furs to help wearers survive the harsh winters.

Growing up in Serenity, Yuuri had no exposure to those different magical applications. He learned the Katsuki way because that had been enough to serve generations before him.

Now, however, his mind turns to the mystery Great Mage. His assumption has always been that he would be facing someone who handled magic similar to how he does. It was, after all, what he encountered with Romanov. But despite the slow decline of magic users across the kingdoms, the rapid depletion of mages after Serenity's destruction, Seung-gil's revelation serves to remind Yuuri that mages have survived in small clusters across different cultures, that there must be pockets of them still striving away from public eye.

He could be facing an approach to magic that he has no idea how to quantify, let alone counter. That alone sends a spark of fear deep to his core.

Yuuri's thoughts continue to spiral with worry as the day goes by. He barely registers the distance they cover or the other riders they pass. It's only when Seung-gil reaches over, grabbing Yuuri's reins and pulling his mare to a halt, that Yuuri tugs himself away from his anxiety to focus on his surroundings.

"What's-"

A sharp look from Seung-gil cuts Yuuri off and he glances around. They're passing through a small wood—just on the other side should be the village Seung-gil mentioned that morning. At the moment, they're stopped in a section where the trees are particularly dense; it’s impossible to see far ahead or behind in any direction.

It's the perfect place for an ambush.

Yuuri reaches into his pack, fingers closing around the wrapped handkerchief he's taken to keeping on his person. Beside him, Seung-gil drops his hand from Yuuri's reins, letting it rest on his thigh, just inches away from the quiver attached to his saddle.

"I count five. Can you handle yourself?" Seung-gil asks.

Yuuri wishes he had a bow of his own, even if his archery skills likely pale in comparison to Seung-gil’s, it would be preferable to his current course of action. Taking a deep breath, Yuuri undoes the knot on the handkerchief and his fingers brush against the ring that was once kept sealed in a jar in his shop. Immediately, Yuuri is swamped with a nauseating feeling of hatred, but he pushes past it to mutter, "I'll be fine."

Seung-gil considers him for a moment before nodding, and urging his horse forward a step, raising his voice so it can be heard from a distance. "I know you're there, you might as well come out."

For several agonizingly long seconds, nothing happens. Then, a figure drops from the trees ahead of them to land on the path. A man in leather armor swings his sword so it's laying across his shoulders. The smile he directs at them is nothing short of patronizing, "We're just looking for a kind traveler to spare us a few coins."

Twigs snap to their right, and Yuuri turns to look at the noise even as he backs his horse away and to the left. Two more figures melt out of the tree line, both of them armed with crossbows. Yuuri slips the ring onto his thumb, picturing the miniature tree at the core of his magic as he wrestles for control over the surge of power in the artifact.

"We're delegates of Prince Chulanont, the prince of Ayutthaya and ally to your king, Viktor Nikiforov. You would do best to let us pass," Seung-gil says, voice steady as he stares down the man who is clearly the leader of the small pack.

The bandit laughs, "Folk like us don't have a king, master delegate. Hand over your purse before you get hurt."

Seung-gil moves rapidly, wheeling his horse with his knees as he pulls two arrows from his quiver. One is notched on his bow before his horse is finished moving and it flies past Yuuri less than a breath later, a second arrow following before Yuuri's fully registered what happened.

Whirling to look behind him, Yuuri catches sight of the two bandits who were sneaking up at their backs. They collapse to the ground, weapons clattering onto the path, Seung-gil’s arrows buried in their chests.

Heart pounding in his chest, Yuuri yanks his hand from his pack to hold it up, palm out, towards the two archers at their side. A pulse of magic leaves his hand—concentrated with pure killing intent—splintering the arrows that are fired at Seung-gil and knocking the bandits off their feet.

The backlash is almost instantaneous, ripping through Yuuri's chest with an intensity that leaves him gasping, struggling to stay atop his horse. He barely registers Seung-gil handling the bandit leader as he clings to consciousness through the pain shooting through his core.

When Yuuri is able to refocus on the world around him, he finds that Seung-gil has dismounted from his horse and is kneeling next to the two enemy archers. The other man picks up limp wrists, searching for pulses. Knowing what he'll find, Yuuri isn't surprised when Seung-gil gets to his feet and turns to face Yuuri, gray eyes sharp.

"They're dead," Seung-gil says, blunt as ever.

"I know," Yuuri mumbles, pulling the handkerchief from his pack and using it to slide the ring from his thumb.

Seung-gil tracks his movements as Yuuri re-wraps the ring, knots the material tightly, and shoves it into his pack. A red mark circles the base of his thumb, reminiscent of a fresh burn. Yuuri rubs at it, biting back a wince at how tender his skin is to the touch.

When he looks back up at Seung-gil, the other man's face is unreadable. Gray eyes scan Yuuri's face, and he says, "We'll keep moving once the bodies are handled."

Nodding, Yuuri dismounts, moving to where the two who tried to attack them from behind lay.

"You can watch the horses," Seung-gil calls.

Yuuri waves a hand at the offer, "I'm fine. I've done this before."

He steps up to the bodies, nose wrinkling at the smell. Despite it being several years since the last time he went on a journey with Minako, the skills she ingrained into him as a child aren't easily forgotten. Kneeling down, he pulls the small dagger he carries from its clip at his waist and digs the arrows out, dropping them to the side in case Seung-gil wants to reuse them. His fingers run along the creases of cheap tunics, pulling out coins and searching for anything that might be useful.

Pocketing what he finds, Yuuri grips the boots of one bandit and drags the corpse over to its fellows on the side of the path, doing the same with the second as Seung-gil handles the leader.

At Yuuri's insistence, he lights a match and drops it on the top of the pile. A flick of his fingers has the flames growing rapidly, consuming flesh and fabric with ease until nothing remains but bones and a few lumps of metal.

Seung-gil gives him a considering look, and Yuuri waits for the inevitable questions to come his way.

Instead, his companion turns his back on the scene, "let's go. We're losing daylight."

With a glance back at the morbid pile, Yuuri rushes after Seung-gil and swings himself into the saddle. Bitterness fills his mouth, as it always did after he used his magic to cause harm, but Yuuri pushes the guilt aside. He has to do what it takes to survive, and if he wants others to survive with him, the strict moral code of the Katsuki clan won’t do him any good.

 

* * *

 

“Your Majesty, evacuation orders have finished being sent out to towns along the road to the palace. We expect the movements North to begin by sundown for the furthest villages.”

“Your Majesty, the report from the quartermaster on our supply inventory has arrived.”

“Your Majesty, the casualty confirmations regarding the attacked village.”

The last speaker gets Viktor to look up from the stack of reports already on his desk and he holds a hand out, nodding in thanks to the runner who passes a folded paper to him before picking up more documents from a scribe and rushing out the door. Viktor’s already received an estimate from Mila regarding how high the death count was on the Southern border, and while he knows better than to expect Mila’s estimate to be grossly incorrect, he can’t help but hope that the actual amount of lives lost is smaller than he’s already been told.

Unfolding the paper, he looks down at the tally. The number only differentiates from Mila's by a dozen; it is twelve more deaths than she estimated.

Resisting the strong urge to crumple the report throw it away, Viktor gets to his feet and moves to the large table just steps away from his desk. A handful of people are present, those who Viktor would call his inner circle for the impending war. He passes the paper to Mila first, who barely glances at it before handing it to the person next to her with a grim nod.

Yakov is the one who takes it next, and he lets out a sigh, "It was too much to hope the rumors of their total war strategy were false."

"Every single guard along the pass and nearly 300 innocent civilians," Viktor barely refrains from snapping, "all of their blood is on my hands, Yakov."

The training master for the kingdom's knights (and Viktor's own teacher when they were both younger) merely gives him a dry look. "You would need to be clairvoyant to predict those bastards would attack this time of year. When this is over, we can mourn them, but now you need to make sure that number doesn't grow."

Viktor nods, running his hand through his hair, "One day I'll stop needing you to lecture me."

Yakov snorts slightly, but doesn't bother voicing his doubt over the comment. Instead, he motions to the map spread on the table below them: the most recent survey of Kiev. "Assuming the snows come late, they'd be able to reach the capital in four weeks. We need to cut them off."

Studying the map, Viktor drums his finger on the table before glancing over at his right, "What do you think, Chris?"

As the captain of his guard, Christophe technically shouldn't be a speaking member of the meeting. But being familiar with the training Christophe had before moving to Kiev, Viktor knows his friend can provide insight here that many of his knights cannot. Concerning himself with the optics of turning his guard captain into an adviser is at the bottom of Viktor’s priority list.

Christophe taps his finger on a point just past halfway between the mountain pass and the capitol, "That's our best bet."

"Why not the forest?" The question is spoken sternly, but there's no hostility from Lady Lilia Baranovskaya. Despite currently holding no official position in court, she was at one time the provost of the capital city. Within the last year, she left retirement to assist Yakov train aspiring knights—as she did when Viktor was a page.

"It’s reasonable to assume we're numerically outnumbered by the Atreides Empire, but they're going to be alert for an attack in any place that limits their line of sight," Christophe explains, "the foothills will limit their sight line, but because they are considered open land people generally assume an ambush is impossible there. We can come around the base of the hills: the rocky territory will prevent them from taking full advantage of their numbers and there are a few trails we can use to circle around their backs."

Lilia nods thoughtfully, "I see you haven't lost the strategic mindset of your people. It's a solid plan."

Viktor glances at Mila, "Do we know the makeup of the vanguard? How many soldiers they have?"

"Prince Menelaus is leading an army of conscripted soldiers from the conquered kingdoms of Silla, Yamatai, and the Helvetian bands,"  Mila rattles off, picking up a report of her own, "the muster was quiet enough that most didn't even realize it occurred. Reports indicate peasants filling up the infantry with a few knights on horseback."

"Being forced into the army by your conqueror would make the soldiers demoralized," Viktor muses, grasping for any shred of hope.

"If it were that simple," Mila sighs, "my people say Menelaus is offering land to soldiers who survive and fight with distinction. Since many of them live in extreme poverty, they're fighting for survival. Our best count has the Atreides vanguard at forty infantry regiments with one mounted officer for each company."

Doing the math in his head, Viktor says, "That's two hundred thousand soldiers on foot and two thousand on horseback." He glances at Yakov, "what is our best muster?"

Sighing, Yakov considers the map, "If we want to cut off the army's approach, we'll need to leave no later than six days from now. I can't foresee more than twenty full infantry regiments making it in time. With the older squires included, we could scrounge up maybe nine hundred or so mounted officers without weakening the mountain borders."

Viktor swears, "It's one thing to be outnumbered, but they'll be double our size. We can't defeat them in a head-on battle with that."

"We don't need to," Lilia replies, smoothly, eyebrow arching at Viktor. "We merely need to stall their advance long enough for the snows. Once winter sets in we can continue muster and attack in full force in the spring."

Lilia’s words echo the speech Viktor gave to the council, stemming the panic that threatened to suffocate him, and Viktor nods firmly in agreement, making a decision. "Let the soldiers know we ride out in six days."

 

* * *

 

As they ride North, Seung-gil and Yuuri fall into a routine. Taking the first watch at night, Yuuri sits next to a low fire from the evening meal to midnight, waking Seung-gil for his watch that lasts until dawn. More often than not, Yuuri wakes up well before Seung-gil’s watch is over and takes a seat on the smoothest patch of ground he can find, eyes fluttering shut to visit his dreamscape.

While the other man goes out to hunt, Yuuri tends to his maple tree, seated cross-legged in front of the embers of the campfire until Seung-gil returns to stoke the flames back to life and cook whatever he caught.

After a quick breakfast and breaking down the camp, they're on the road all day, only stopping to rest the horses every few hours before pressing on until sundown. Another meal around the fire, and the routine begins anew.

For the first two days, sitting by the fire is often the only time they converse.

The night after being attacked by the bandits, Seung-gil comments on Yuuri's glasses. "They filter your vision."

Despite there being no question in Seung-gil's voice, Yuuri nods. "My mother charmed them for me when I was younger. It was hard to concentrate."

"It prevented you from learning how to control your vision."

"I was a child," Yuuri protests, feeling the need to defend his mother's decision.

"You aren't anymore," is the muttered response before Seung-gil tucks into his food, dropping the conversation for the night.

During breakfast the next morning, Yuuri is the one to break the silence, "I've never met someone who controls their Sight like you do."

He's met with a dry look, "Most people with control of magic don't feel the need to also control their vision. It's considered beneath them. My people adapted to survive."

"Your people?"

Seung-gil waves the comment away, leaning forward as he considers Yuuri, "You want to learn?"

"Yes, can you teach me?"

There's no reply. Seung-gil gets to his feet and begins breaking down the camp. Stifling a sigh, Yuuri quickly finishes his food before going to help. They work well together, moving in tandem, never getting in the other's way.

It's only when they mount their horses that Seung-gil speaks again, holding a hand out, "You won't learn with those on."

Yuuri blinks at him, not quite sure what Seung-gil is referring to.

A single eyebrow quirks and Seung-gil reaches up, pulling Yuuri's glasses from his face. They're carefully closed and tucked into a saddlebag before Seung-gil urges his horse onto the road, calling over his shoulder, "Pay attention as we ride, that's how you learn."

With Yuuri's glasses forfeit, the other man suddenly becomes chattier—though for Seung-gil that merely means he speaks up every few hours, concisely explaining concepts to Yuuri without any introduction. The way Seung-gil manages to describe theory so succinctly leaves Yuuri dazed; he comes to realize that, when Phichit called Seung-gil one of the smartest men he had ever met, his friend hadn’t meant it with any sense of hyperbole.

For the rest of the day, and the entirety of the next, Yuuri rides next to his traveling companion, frowning in concentration as he tries to filter through the constant barrage of colors and control his vision the way Seung-gil can.

His practice continues all the way to the gates of the capital. As they leave the solitude of their journey North and enter the city, Seung-gil reaches into his saddlebag and passes Yuuri’s his glasses without a word. Having decided to push on past sunset, they arrive in the dead of night, but just as it always has, the density of the city tests Yuuri’s tolerance and he gratefully slides his glasses back on. 

“Stop! Who goes there?”

The harsh shout makes Yuuri rein in his horse, squinting ahead to where he can barely make out the castle gates. Luckily, Seung-gil is the one who answers, urging his horse up a few steps before replying, “We come as a gesture of goodwill from Prince Chulanont of Ayutthaya.”

“Dismount your horses and hold your hands above your heads.”

Yuuri frowns, glancing at Seung-gil, completely bewildered. He doesn’t remember the palace guards being so hostile. The other man merely shrugs at him and dismounts from his horse, holding his arms up; Yuuri follows suit. Footsteps sound before them as three figures walk closer to where Yuuri and Seung-gil stand. When the guards come into the light, they aren’t wearing the royal blue uniform of the castle guard. If Yuuri didn’t know any better he’d say the three men in front of him are army troops.

The soldier in front studies at them. “If you’re from Prince Chulanont why are neither of you Ayutthayan?”

“Considering that there are only three sovereign kingdoms left, a lot of us aren’t natives to the country we now call home,” Seung-gil replies, sounding annoyed that he has to explain such a thing.

The soldier scowls at the response, “And what do you two want?”

Seung-gil shrugs, “I’m merely an escort.”

Attention shifts to Yuuri. “I want to speak to the king.”

There’s a beat of silence before the soldiers laugh. The soldier in the front crosses his arms over his chest, “You think you can just march in here and demand to see his majesty?”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, trying to remain calm in the face of their dismissal. He slowly lowers his hands to his sides as he says clearly, voice brokering no room for discussion. “I want to speak to the king. If he hears you delayed me, he won’t be pleased.”

“What makes you say that?” Another soldier sneers.

Dropping their gaze, Yuuri digs into his belt purse, fingers curling around the largest coin inside before pulling it out, holding it up for inspection. Silver glints in the moonlight revealing the token Viktor gave to him so many weeks ago. The soldiers barring their path go still, eyes fixed on the coin.

For all that he lived in Kiev for several years, Yuuri is not a native. He doesn’t really know what the coin is or what it is meant to do. What he does know is the way Viktor had been insistent on Yuuri having it, the fact that, despite living in the palace and interacting with high-ranking members of the court, Yuuri has never laid eyes on another coin like it.

“Is that-”one of the soldiers begins in a murmur.

“What is your name?” the question comes from the soldier in front, who seems to be in charge, his face unreadable now as he studies the two travelers.

“Yuuri.”

“…no surname?”

“Not that needs sharing. King Nikiforov knows me as Yuuri.”

A few seconds pass before the soldier lets out a sigh, “Put that away and come with me.” He turns to his fellows, “watch their horses and don’t say a word of this to anyone else until I come back.”

The two soldiers nod and jog forward, accepting the reins from Seung-gil and Yuuri. Yuuri quickly drops the token back into his belt purse and follows the soldier as he sets off into the castle gates and across the courtyard. This is different than how it was when Yuuri left too; carts and wagons line the center path, almost like another caravan is preparing to set out from the palace.

It’s not just the courtyard that underwent a change over the course of a mere week. Yuuri is bewildered at the amount of activity within the palace. It’s the hour past midnight and runners still rush down the corridors with haste; nobles and knights mill around certain doors, engaged in heated conversations.

Frowning, Yuuri glances at their guide, “What’s going on?”

His question seems to confuse the soldier, an odd look flashing across the man’s face as he considers Yuuri, “I assumed you were here because you heard.”

Finding it highly unlikely that Viktor made an announcement of the news Phichit received regarding the mage’s possible political collections, Yuuri shakes his head, “I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.”

“We were attacked. The Atreides Empire crossed the pass at the Southern border and destroyed the village there.”

Eyes widening, Yuuri glances around once more—the frantic movements of everyone they pass now makes sense. Given that the winter snows are likely less than a month away, he doubts anyone in Viktor’s council seriously considered the possibility of an attack happening so soon. They’re woefully unprepared to handle just the empire’s army, regardless of the presence of a mage.

“Yuuri?”

He stops at his name, turning to face Mila. She looks, for the lack of a kinder term, exhausted—as if the mere days since Yuuri saw her last have been months. The combination of her pale face, slightly dull gaze, and the bags under her eyes urges Yuuri to demand she gets rest, but exhausted as she is, her eyes are sharp as she takes in the small group.

In mere seconds, she seems to come to a conclusion with a nod to the guard, “I’ll escort them from here, thank you.”

The dismissal is no less firm for all its politeness and the soldier bows to Mila before returning the way he came. When he’s out of earshot, Mila’s attention flicks to Seung-gil, “I take it you were ordered to stick close to Yuuri, so I can’t ask you to wait behind.”

Seung-gil quirks an eyebrow, “I was ordered to assist Yuuri and follow his requests, within reason.”

Mila hums thoughtfully before turning to Yuuri, “You want to speak to Viktor?”

He nods, “Can you take me to him?”

Mila jerks her head down the corridor, “I’m on my way there now, come along.”

They continue down the hall, only going a few steps before Mila says, “At least one of you understands what we’re dealing with when it comes to the mage. If Viktor’s still being stubborn send him my way.”

“Stubborn?”

She lets out a slight sigh and tosses her hair so she can see him clearly out the corner of her eye. “I mentioned our deal would only last as long as you stayed, but seeing as we’re now in desperate times...an answer for an answer?”

Yuuri considers the offer. Unlike the last time she proposed it, he has significantly less he plans to hide, and given what he’s returned to the palace to do, he doesn’t doubt many of his secrets will soon be revealed anyways. “Sure.”

Her voice drops so that she’s barely audible to Yuuri, effectively preventing any of the people they pass from overhearing her. “I told Viktor he should have ordered you to come back and help with the mage, he refused before the suggestion was all the way out of my mouth. He said he refuses to drag you into a war.” Mila comes to a stop, turning so they’re face to face, “he won’t say why, no matter how much I’ve needled him about it since, so I can’t help but assume he won’t be thrilled to see you here.”

Mila’s eyes are sharp on Yuuri’s face, looking for a reaction that he has no intention to give her. Instead, Yuuri files the information away and moves on, “What is your question?”

“I know you’re here because of the letter we sent to Chulanont—news of the impending war didn’t even get to us fast enough for it be the reason you turned around. It’s obvious you’re stronger of a mage than Romanov was, but can you actually hold your own against a Great Mage?”

Raising an eyebrow, Yuuri says, “I assumed you were going to ask about my history.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m interested and I have my theories, but who you might have been in your past isn’t important anymore. War is upon us and Viktor’s job is to make sure Kiev comes through it in one piece; my job is to make sure he knows what tools and resources he has available.”

A wry smile spreads across Yuuri’s face at Mila’s answer. He’s never met someone who disregards his act of weakness and is utterly unapologetic about it. In different circumstances, Yuuri thinks she’d get along with Minako quite well.

Matching her candor, Yuuri speaks just as quietly, “It’s hard to say with the mage still being so far away. They seem to have some level of concern about me, so they aren’t overwhelmingly powerful.” Tilting his head to stare at the ceiling, Yuuri flicks his memory back through each time he came into contact with the other magic user. “I think...they are more experienced than I am, but I may have stronger magic.”

“So it’s basically a coin toss.”

“As far as I can tell.”

Mila glances around, seemingly looking for potential eavesdroppers, “What if you had access to Romanov’s library? He had a dozen books on magical theory and notes on them all.”

“It might help, but if the army is already in Kiev, I doubt I’ll have much time to get through them.”

“Whatever helps our odds is worth trying,” Mila sighs. She closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose with two fingers as if fighting off a headache. For a second, Yuuri thinks he can see every ounce of pressure on the young woman’s shoulder before Mila shakes her head and composes herself. “This way, then.”

She steps up to a door on their right and pushes it open. They step inside what Yuuri assumes is Viktor’s office, though the sheer size of the room is almost daunting. Just inside the door they walk past six small desks of scribes, all with piles of documents at their elbows, working as if it’s midday instead of the middle of the night. Past the scribes the office splays wide open, bookshelves sit on either side of the walls with a large desk directly across from the door. Between where they stand and the desk is a table, a group is clustered around it—packed in so tight that no one bothered with chairs. At the table’s head, Viktor leans over a map, brows wrinkled in concentration as he listens to someone speak.

Mila steps up to the closest end of the table, “Pardon the interruption, but this meeting will need to resume tomorrow.”

Still frowning at the map, Viktor says, “And why is that?”

She clears her throat, “You have a visitor, Majesty.”

Clearly confused, Viktor glances up from the map and his gaze immediately falls on Yuuri. His eyes widen and he straightens slowly, “Thank you, Lady Babicheva. We will resume this meeting two hours past noon tomorrow.”

The sudden dismissal throws several of the attendees off-balance, and more than a few odd looks are directed Yuuri’s way as the others file past where he stands and out of the office. Mila waits until they’re nearly alone before she turns to Seung-gil, “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

Seung-gil raises an eyebrow at Yuuri, and Yuuri nods, “Go ahead.”

Mila leads Seung-gil to a small seating area to the far left end of the room, hands waving in the air as she begins talking—no doubt chattering about court gossip that neither of them cares about.

Just like Mila, Viktor is exhausted. He doesn’t stand quite as tall as Yuuri’s come to equate with Viktor _Nikiforov_ , his eyes are slightly bloodshot, his face too pale. Yuuri’s reminded of the image of Viktor on his deathbed, and he blinks rapidly to push back the nightmare and focus on reality.

Trying for a smile, Yuuri says, “Hi.”

That breaks Viktor from his trance, and he smiles in return—the too bright smile that Yuuri had never witnessed until being brought to the palace, “Do you mind if we talk in private?”

Yuuri glances over at the seating area and meets blue eyes; Mila’s prediction on how Viktor would react to his presence rings loud in Yuuri’s mind even as he nods and flicks his gaze back to the man in question. “Whatever you’d like.”

Viktor steps away from the table, motioning to the right of the room. The tension that oozes from the palace walls—a reminder of the looming threat—clings to Viktor no matter how straight he holds his back, regardless of the comedic arm wave he gives to gesture Yuuri through the door and into a small meeting room.

Taking a seat, Yuuri wonders if this charade would be easier for him to buy if he hadn’t seen just how terrified Viktor was in the aftermath of the queen’s death. If, for those who have only ever seen Viktor at his strongest, it is harder to pick out the stiffness of his shoulders and the way his eyes don’t light up with his smile.

“Is everything alright?” Viktor asks as he closes the door and takes the chair opposite, “did something happen to Prince Chulanont?”

Yuuri shakes his head, “Phichit is fine.” Yuuri shifts slightly in his seat before admitting, “I turned around when he told me about your letter. I’m here to help.”

There's a soft hum from the other man as he props his chin on his hand, considering Yuuri with a half-lidded gaze. "I'm surprised he did that."

"Phichit can get protective but he doesn't coddle me. He knows I can handle myself."

It’s impossible to read Viktor’s expression—his face is almost serene, completely at odds with the matter at hand. As if deliberately trying to prevent Yuuri from understanding what's going through his mind, Viktor is all but slouched into his seat, body projecting an air of lazy relaxation. Viktor feels like a stranger.

"You should go."

Yuuri frowns, "Why?"

"This isn't your fight, Yuuri. You already did more than enough for Kiev. Go back to Ayutthaya, you'll be safe there."

"Viktor, you won't be able to fight off an army backed by a Great Mage," Yuuri protests.

A flash of emotion cracks Viktor's calm mask, and he sighs, "The enemy numbers are so great that, with or without a mage, we may not be able to fight them off. I can barely keep my citizens safe, I don't need your death on my hands too."

There's a slight waver in Viktor's voice, and Yuuri pauses, considering him. His gaze runs back over Viktor's face, taking in the exhaustion etched on Viktor’s features anew; Yuuri remembers the years of soul-crushing guilt when he blamed himself for being helpless while his family died and wonders how heavy the burden of an entire kingdom’s survival must be.

"Kiev is as much my home as it is to the people in this city. If you're raising an army, there'll be boys younger than me fighting for their kingdom. I should be able to help how I can, just as they will." Keeping Viktor's gaze, Yuuri leans forward, hoping Viktor can see the determination in his face. "Let me help you, Viktor."

Viktor blinks, and looks away, staring at the wall as he swallows harshly. "I didn’t want you mixed up in this."

"You didn't force me to come here, this is my choice."

A sad smile tugs on Viktor's lips and he meets Yuuri's gaze, "You're much more stubborn than I ever could have imagined when I met you at the festival. What happened to the shy storyteller?"

Cheeks flushing slightly, Yuuri shrugs, "Your strength inspired me to stop running away."

The answer doesn't make much sense to Viktor, it's obvious from the way his head tilts slightly. The movement has silver bangs falling away and before he can stop himself, Yuuri reaches across the table, brushing the backs of his fingers against Viktor's forehead. Whatever question was on Viktor’s lips dies at Yuuri’s touch, and Yuuri feels his cheeks flush underneath Viktor’s stare.

Hastily, he pulls back and clears his throat, "You need to rest, Viktor. You're no good for anyone if you collapse from exhaustion."

"I'm fine." Yuuri gives him a flat look, and Viktor chuckles slightly before holding his hands up in surrender, "let me get you and your guard rooms and then I'll rest."

"Promise?"

"On my word as king."

Shaking his head, Yuuri says, "I just want your word as Viktor, that's more important to me."

Blue eyes widen in shock, and Yuuri watches with confusion as pink dusts across Viktor's cheeks and tinges his ears with color. "Ah, right. My word as Viktor, then."

Yuuri smiles, "Thank you."

The King of Kiev coughs lightly into his fist before springing to his feet, "You must be tired too. We can talk more in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This chapter wasn't supposed to be this long"- me, every other update.
> 
>  
> 
> **Some Worldbuilding Notes:**
> 
> For more information on the breakdown of kingdoms and where some of the characters originate from, be sure to check out the [world maps.](https://lovingnikiforov.tumblr.com/ee) 
Special thank you to my coworker that has a degree in equine science and helped me puzzle through how much distance all of these horses and riders can reasonably travel. She isn't reading this, but I told her I'd give her a shout out in my author notes.

> 
> Chapter Song: _All We Do_ by Oh Wonder.


	16. identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"On my word as king."_   
>  _Shaking his head, Yuuri says, "I just want your word as Viktor, that's more important to me."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back and thank you for continuing to read this giant of a fic! I'm trying to find some sort of sustainable schedule for my stories so *fingers crossed* you'll be seeing more regular updates.
> 
> Also, thank you for everyone who filled out my survey! I went through your feedback and discussed a few of my thoughts, if you're curious you can check that out [over here!](https://lovingnikiforov.tumblr.com/post/171731868388/thank-you-to-everyone-who-took-the-time-to-respond).
> 
> **[Click here to see the world maps.](https://lovingnikiforov.tumblr.com/ee)**
> 
>  **Listen to the[Fic Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq) on Spotify.** This chapter: song #14

_Viktor holds out a hand in offering, “One day, you should come visit me in Kiev, and I can take you ice skating on the big lake. By then, I’ll know how to do tricks and I can teach you.”_

_The boy seated on the ice can't be older than six, and he stares up at Viktor with wide brown eyes before accepting his hand with a question: "Promise?"_

_Tugging the boy to his feet, Viktor loosens his grip so he can slide his hand back and curl his little finger around the other's. With a nod, he draws himself to his full height, "I give you my word as a prince."_

_The boy's nose wrinkles, as if he finds the offer distasteful, "Just as Vitya."_

_It's not anything he's ever heard before: normally people are falling over their feet to have Viktor swear by his lineage. The boy gives an emphasis on his name—the diminutive that only his mother has ever called him—as if it's somehow more important than the Nikiforov Dynasty. And, perhaps to him, it is._

_Smiling, Viktor corrects himself. "Fine, I give you my word as Vitya."_

Eyes flying open, Viktor pushes himself upright in his bed so quickly that he feels lightheaded. Bringing his fingers to run through his hair, he tries to grasp onto the dream before it fades away. It had all felt so real, so much more lifelike than any dream he's ever had.

Picturing the boy's face, the warm brown eyes that stared up at Viktor from behind glasses, makes his temple pound. Swearing softly to himself, Viktor lays back on the bed and closes his eyes, ignoring the rapidly forming headache in favor of trying to focus on the boy.

Everything about him had been so familiar.

The entire dream had been familiar. From the frozen pond in the middle of a summer day to the words that flowed from Viktor's mouth. Even the insistence that Viktor swear by his own name rather than his family's status: just like Yuuri did.

He's not able to push away a small smile at the memory. Despite how much Viktor doesn't want Yuuri caught up in the impending war, he can't deny there's something reassuring about knowing Yuuri is back. Regardless of the strength of Yuuri's magic—which Viktor is yet to get a real answer about—by virtue of being a mage Yuuri can provide insight of the coming threat that Viktor sorely needs.

It's nice to have Yuuri here. It's nice to have someone who sees him as Viktor first, and as king second (if not third or fourth).

_"I just want your word as Viktor, that's more important to me."_

Even if Yuuri's tone had left no room for argument, his eyes had softened as he spoke, meeting Viktor's gaze from behind his glasses.

Viktor's smile falters.

Thinking back to his dream, he pictures the boy again, imagines he's listening to the way the youthful voice carefully pronounces each syllable of his name. The dream had been so vivid, so lifelike, so realistic.

It couldn't be...?

His head is throbbing again, as if trying to stop Viktor from continuing his current line of thought.

Blinking his eyes open, Viktor slides out of bed and walks to his desk, rifling through a drawer before pulling out a particular notebook. It takes him mere seconds to flip to the page he is looking for, and Viktor moves closer to his windows, using the moonlight to read.

_On the subject of the healer, Yuuri, he spoke in my defense before the new king and I could not help but be reminded of Hiroko in that moment. I almost wonder if, perhaps, he might be her son. The Katsuki heir here, of all places, is beyond absurd it almost makes me laugh, but the magnitude of his power, the way he confronted the king…it is almost too much to be a coincidence._

Almost too much to be coincidence is exactly how Viktor feels. He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, can feel his heart hammering at his chest.

 _If_ Yuuri is the Katsuki heir, then Viktor would have met him on his trip to the mage village. Viktor made that trip when he was nine, that would put Yuuri around the same age as the boy in his dream.

"Katsuki Yuuri," Viktor says the words out loud, testing the feel of the name on his tongue.

The throbbing in his head stops, then it bursts into a flame.

With a gasp, Viktor's hand shoots out, pressing against the wall to keep himself upright as he's flooded with memories: riding into a village with his mother, greeting a kind looking woman with Yuuri's eyes, spending days on end in Yuuri's company—both of them struggling to speak in their shared language, a pond freezing over almost instantly, laughing as he teaches Yuuri to skate.

_Katsuki Yuuri._

It's almost too surreal to comprehend. Viktor's spent months calling the lost heir of the Katsuki line a damned _storyteller_. He managed to piss off the man who shares a name and lineage with the first ever mage. Assuming Yuuri has the same strength as he’s heard tale of previous Katsukis having, it would be no leap of logic to believe Yuuri can kill him in the blink of an eye; all this time Viktor’s been the one trying to protect Yuuri under the assumption that Yuuri needs any kind of protection.

Another memory rises to mind, completely unbidden, of the night before the Ayutthayan delegation left the palace. Of when Viktor asked Yuuri for the truth, asked Yuuri if he knew the Katsuki family. Yuuri had shrugged, dismissed the question with such casual ease that it makes Viktor's breath catch in his throat.

He had been so convinced that Yuuri wouldn't do that, wouldn't take Viktor's request for truth and disregard it. He had told Mila that Yuuri wouldn’t tell the story of his family's deaths while still lying about who they were. Viktor knows that time is supposed to heal all wounds but having just lost his mother he can't even fathom having the capability to do the same.

Viktor's mother had said that his faith in Yuuri was refreshing. The term is bitter in his mouth now. All Viktor can feel now is the cynical part of himself, the Viktor who was forced to harden and believe the worst in people to survive in the royal court, saying that this is why it's foolish to trust people blindly.

Just the thought makes his gut churn, and Viktor pushes away from the window. He steps up to his wardrobe, rapidly pulling on a change of clothes: if he stays here and tries to sort through his thoughts alone he's going to go mad.

There's only one way to get answers.

Pushing open his bedroom doors, Viktor strides through his sitting room and out into the corridor, giving a clipped nod to the guards posted outside. His shoulders are straight as he moves through the empty hallways, his face set with the cool confidence that his people have come to expect from the Nikiforovs.

Does he really think Yuuri will tell him the truth now, after how easily he lied last time?

Viktor's steps falter for a split second before he grits his teeth and quickens his pace. If he can't confront one man, how will he be able to lead an army to war?

It's easy to find Yuuri's room, give that Viktor personally showed Yuuri to it, hoping that the other man wouldn't read too much into the fact that the room had only been touched for cleaning since Yuuri road out with Prince Chulanont with no intention of returning.

Even with the increase of people in the castle to prepare for the war, Yuuri's room sat untouched.

Viktor knocks on the door, heart racing as the seconds tick by without an answer. He doesn’t know how long he waits before Yuuri opens it, blinking sleepily up at him. The mage—no, Great Mage—rubs one of his eyes and frowns slightly, “Viktor? Is something wrong?”

“You’re a Katsuki.” He meant to lead into it a little, but the declaration bursts from his mouth without permission, the words sitting in the space between them before Viktor can even process it.

He’s having a hard time processing everything right now.

Brown eyes widen momentarily, but the shock on Yuuri’s face is short-lived. His eyes flick past Viktor, considering the empty hallway, before he meets Viktor’s gaze again and steps aside, “We should talk inside.”

It’s not the response Viktor was hoping for. He was hoping that Yuuri would laugh, tell Viktor that he’s mistaken, that too little sleep and too much stress have stretched him thin and turned fanciful wishes into dreams. But Yuuri just looks resigned as Viktor walks past him and into the suite.

“Do you want to sit?” Yuuri murmurs as the door closes.

“Uh, sure.” Viktor doesn’t flop into one of the seats, but it’s nearly all he can do not to collapse as the truth catches up to him. He stares as Yuuri crosses the room to sit opposite, and out of all the questions running through his mind, the first one he asks is: “where are your glasses?”

Yuuri tilts his head, as if confused that this is where Viktor wants to start, and gestures over his shoulder at the bed, “Over there. I don’t need them to see, they actually decrease the strength of my vision. I just forgot to put them on...I can get them if you want.”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Viktor rushes to say, and he hates how awkward it is, because awkward tension was never something that existed between him and Yuuri.

The other man considers Viktor, eyes scanning his face—looking unnaturally sharp given the fact that Viktor just woke him from much-needed rest. “I’m assuming you remembered something.”

“Ice skating,” he mumbles, “I remembered that I promised to take you ice skating if you came to visit Kiev.”

Surprise flashes across Yuuri’s face, “That’s what you remembered?”

“You made me promise as Vitya, just like you did tonight,” Viktor says, “you’re the only person to ever turn down my word as a royal.”

It earns him a sad smile, melting the unreadable expression that filled Yuuri’s face. Pity isn’t what Viktor expected to be faced with, not from a man who evidently lost everything to a fire as a child, not from a man who spent the better part of his life hiding his identity. He shifts slightly in his chair, opening his mouth before realizing he doesn’t know how to voice the thought without offending, and letting his mouth shut.

“What do you want to know?” Yuuri asks, breezing past the moment without hesitation.

“Why did you keep lying to me?” Viktor winces—he should have waited to have this conversation, maybe talked to Chris or Mila—nothing is coming out the way he wants it to. He doesn’t want to antagonize Yuuri, or make this about his emotions, he just wants the truth from Yuuri and he rushes to add, "I know my actions recently haven't been magic-friendly, but I...I was wrong, and I know that. I hoped that you knew that I don’t want to treat mages unfairly."

Yuuri drops his gaze, shifting in his seat as he considers the embers in the fireplace. "It wasn't about you. I haven't told anyone who I am since meeting Phichit's parents, that was over a decade ago." He lets out a sigh, and murmurs, "lying about my identity is just reflex at this point."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Viktor turning over the answer in his head, trying to separate Yuuri's reasoning from the way the truth had seemed to stab him in the gut, the way a sense of reciprocated mistrust wants to leak into the open. "Were you going to tell me?"

"I don't know."

"Yuuri-"

"Why didn't you tell me you were the crown prince?" Yuuri cuts him off, still staring at the embers.

It's so early in the morning that his face is half in shadows, the light from the hearth seems to make brown eyes speckled with gold.

"It was nice to have someone treat me normally," Viktor replies, "I was afraid you would act differently if you knew who I was. But we met when we were younger, you knew-"

"No, I didn't," Yuuri cuts across him again, and Viktor falls silent immediately, wanting to hear Yuuri speak more than he cares to explain himself. He needs to understand. "That was so many years ago. I was five, and after what happened to Serenity...trying to suppress the bad memories also meant the good ones suffered too. I didn't remember your visit until coming to the palace and hearing your mother call you that."

Faintly, Viktor thinks he can remember how a younger Yuuri had been so confident to call him Vitya—the name rolling in an accent that Viktor can't pick up in Yuuri's speech now no matter how hard he searches for it.

Frowning, Viktor asks, "Then how did you figure out who I am?"

"Phichit," the answer is accompanied with a dry laugh, "he saw you riding away that day you gave me the token and he assumed I already knew. But that's not why I asked you the question." Finally, Yuuri turns from the fire to meet Viktor's gaze—there's nothing apologetic on his face, only fierce determination, "you didn't tell me because you wanted to just be Viktor. I haven't wanted to be Katsuki Yuuri since I left my family to die."

The way Yuuri pronounces his own name is leagues apart from how Viktor murmured it to himself. Yuuri's voice dips along the vowels, drawing them out until Viktor can hear a hint of the accent Yuuri must have abandoned so long ago, an accent Viktor has only ever heard when Yuuri introduced himself for the first time all those weeks ago.

So much is said in so few words, and Viktor wonders if that's the storyteller in Yuuri peeking through: painting vivid imagery with concise strokes. There are emotions in Yuuri's voice that don't match the calmness on his face, that are too complex for Viktor to pick apart without help.

He wants to help Yuuri. All this time, Yuuri is the one who has been helping Viktor, literally supporting Viktor as his entire world crumbled around him. And now Viktor can hear whispers of a pain carried for much longer, but that too is kept secret from him—hidden behind an expression of stone.

When he first set eyes on Yuuri at the Midsummer's Festival Viktor never imagined there could be so many secrets hiding behind that shy smile.

Viktor can't help Yuuri if Yuuri doesn't want to let him. So, he clears his throat and lets the harsh statement fall behind them. "You're the Magic Keeper."

"No, I'm not."

"But your mother was, and if you're the last one alive in your family doesn't that mean the title is yours?"

"It takes more than a family name to make someone the Magic Keeper. Someone who spent more than half of their life hiding to save their own life instead of working to preserve mage-kind and their way of life is no Magic Keeper."

Frowning, Viktor protests, "You're too harsh on yourself."

"I know what I am."

A knock on the door halts Viktor's reply. Yuuri pushes himself to his feet without hesitation and moves to answer it. His body language can't hide the tension wrought in every line of Yuuri's body as well as his face is able to, and Viktor's frown deepens.

"I'm looking for Viktor. He isn't here, by chance?" It's almost ironic to hear Christophe's voice float through the door, reminiscent of another interrupted conversation that feels like a lifetime ago.

Yuuri glances over his shoulder, "Looks like your presence is needed."

Reluctantly, Viktor gets to his feet and crosses the room, giving his friend a weak smile, "Tell me it's not more bad news?"

Christophe sighs, "I can't say. One of the advance scouts arrived, Mila thought you would want to hear the report before the war council."

It's barely past dawn, but Viktor can already tell it's going to be a long day. Every day since his mother passed has been a long day, and each one seems to somehow be longer than the last.

He nods, "Give me a few seconds?"

Green eyes flick between Viktor and Yuuri, clearly picking up the tension but, thankfully, Christophe doesn't comment on it. He merely brings two fingers to his temple in an informal salute and moves further down the hallway.

Turning back to face Yuuri, Viktor hesitates, not entirely sure he wants to ask his next question but aware that he has to.

As if reading his mind, Yuuri beats him to the punch, "You have to tell them, I understand. When I made the decision to come back I figured the truth would come out sooner or later."

"I don't have to tell them."

It's a lie, they both know it. Viktor doesn't, he can't, make decisions solely for himself anymore. He has an entire kingdom relying on him to do what's best for them all, and revealing that they have a Great Mage at their disposal certainly fits that box. Viktor’s already been told (more than once) that his judgment when it comes to Yuuri is questionable. There are other things, smaller things, he can overlook for Yuuri’s sake but this is too big.

Yuuri smiles, the expression doesn't reach his eyes. "Go be king, Viktor. I can handle myself."

Viktor nods and steps into the corridor before turning back to meet Yuuri's gaze, "Thank you for telling me the truth."

The other man just flicks his fingers, as if shooing him away, as he closes the door. Just before it's shut, Viktor hears Yuuri murmur. "I didn't do anything worth being thanked for."

 

* * *

 

Gray eyes are boring into the side of Yuuri’s skull, stripping him bare without words. Yuuri can’t help but feel that Seung-gil is judging him and finding him wanting. The fleeting thought is almost terrifying: the knowledge that Seung-gil is here to watch his back—even if only due to orders—is a small comfort now that he’s been thrust back into the world of Kiev, now that Viktor knows.

“You’re not concentrating,” Seung-gil comments.

Yuuri sighs, and rubs his eyes: he’s exhausted. Riding all night to reach the castle, being attacked on the trip here, waking up after too little sleep to be faced with Viktor who was obviously hurt even if he tried to hide it.

“I didn’t sleep much.”

The other man snorts, “You’re not going to sleep much once we get on the road. You could heal someone like this.”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Yuuri looks back out over the city sprawled beneath them without complaint. Seung-gil is right, the skills that Yuuri diligently kept up with over the years wouldn’t suffer as much with added stress and exhaustion, but concentrating on the colors makes his already fluttering stomach nauseous.

There’s a thoughtful hum from the other man, “Something is bothering you.”

“Can you See that?” Yuuri asks, turning to face Seung-gil in his bewilderment.

Seung-gil gives him a dry look, “You look like you’re going to be sick, it’s pretty obvious.”

“Oh, right.”

A single eyebrow quirks up, a silent question that Yuuri has no trouble interpreting. He gets the impression that Seung-gil doesn't particularly care one way or the other if something is bothering Yuuri unless it will get in the way of the job they're here to do. He also gets the impression that the other man will listen patiently if Yuuri ends up rambling, will offer advice if he thinks Yuuri needs it.

Out here, at the top of the castle's southern tower, there's no one to overhear whatever drops from their lips. The rest of the capital looks idyllic, fanning down and out below them in dozens upon dozens of rows made up of small buildings. The sun is still rising above the peaks to their left, bringing much-needed warmth to the frigid morning air.

Taking a deep breath, Yuuri holds it for a moment before letting it out, watching it disperse like smoke, "Did Phichit tell you who I am?" Seung-gil's eyebrow quirks slightly higher, and Yuuri laughs slightly, "right, he probably didn't say much."

Somehow it doesn't get easier to say the second time, but Yuuri mumbles, “My family name is Katsuki."

Gray eyes widen slightly before narrowing, and Yuuri feels like Seung-gil is rapidly re-categorizing everything he had previously thought was true about Yuuri.

Turning back to face the city to avoid the scrutiny, Yuuri leans over the lower wall, "Viktor knows that now."

Seung-gil snorts, "People lie, it's what we do. The king will get over it."

"What if he doesn't?"

"What does it matter?"

The question has Yuuri whirling back to face Seung-gil, slightly defensive, "Viktor's my friend."

With an exasperated sigh, Seung-gil pokes Yuuri in the forehead, "A friend you've known for, what? A few months? If that's enough to ruin your concentration in your magic then you're a shoddy mage."

"I'm not-"

"And if he's really your friend he should understand why you were lying." Yuuri's mouth snaps shut, and he stares at Seung-gil, completely unable to argue. Rolling his eyes, the other man says, "If that's all?"

Nodding slowly, Yuuri pushes the tumble of emotions and thoughts that had been plaguing him since Viktor arrive at his door that morning to the back of his mind and goes back to his practice.

 

* * *

 

She finds them standing on the parapet of the southern tower. Time is no longer on Kiev's side, no longer on her side, but Mila can't help but pause just inside the staircase and take the strange pair in. They stand in silence, Yuuri staring out over the city as Seung-gil stares at Yuuri.

It's not the first time that Mila wishes she could lay down the mantle of spymaster and get to know Yuuri without analyzing his every word. There's a quiet nature to his kindness that implies a genuine inclination to treat others well rather than a need to be praised for nobility, and watching Yuuri's face light up with a victorious smile brings a slight smile to her face as well. Mila wishes she could tell Viktor that Yuuri seems like he means well, but optimism is not her job.

As the only child of the Babichev house, it was never a question of if she wanted to become spymaster, only when. Mila's been taught to question everyone and everything and she learned to do it well. In order to prepare for the worst-case scenarios, to ferret out the most ruthless schemes from the closest allies, Mila was forced to develop an almost relentless sense of cynicism.

She wants to take in the scene before her and muse about how nice it is that two young men are enjoying the morning air, taking in some of the last moments of sanity they'll have for some time. Instead, Mila's forced to wonder if there's a secret message being relayed somewhere in the city, if they’re analyzing the city’s weak spots for a potential attack. Sometimes she hates it.

It's Seung-gil who notices her first. The fact that she's been noticed at all is something to note: not that Mila expected Prince Chulanont to send anyone other than his best to protect the friend he would threaten diplomatic relations over.

"Lady Babicheva," the bodyguard says, nodding in greeting.

His comment has Yuuri turning to face her, and Mila is struck by how sharp Yuuri's gaze is even without his glasses. The mage's eyes seem to look right through her as he smiles in greeting.

Masking her thoughts behind a smile of her own, Mila says, "I hope I didn't interrupt, I just thought Yuuri would want to look at Romanov's study before it's time to ride out."

Yuuri nods, holding out a hand to accept the glasses that Seung-gil produces from inside his cloak, "Hopefully there are some things there that will help." He pushes the glasses onto his face and pauses to exchange a handful of murmured words with Seung-gil.

When Yuuri moves toward the stairs, he does so without the bodyguard in his shadow. Mila directs a curious look at Seung-gil before turning and leading Yuuri down the spiral of the tower stairs and into the main corridors of the palace.

"How did you find us?" Yuuri asks as they step back into the regular traffic of the castle.

Mila resists the urge to shoot him a dry look—there are times when Yuuri displays a naivete completely at odds with what he is in their world. A mage and an agent of a foreign power arrive in the middle of the night while the kingdom is preparing for a war: any self-respecting spymaster would make sure their whereabouts are always accounted for. Even now that Yuuri is in her company, Mila knows one of her people is trailing leisurely behind them while another waits at the base of the tower stairs for when Seung-gil eventually descends.

Instead of saying as much to Yuuri, she changes the subject. "Viktor had us going through Romanov's study hoping there would be information that would help us handle the Great Mage. Obviously, I would have liked more time to analyze everything inside, but that's just not a luxury we have."

"Viktor thought books would help you fight a Great Mage?" Yuuri asks, frowning.

Mila can't hold back a snort of amusement, "That was my reaction. Of course, understanding what the enemy is capable of might help us prepare better, but for it to make a significant difference I'd assume this is something that would require generations of preparation."

They come to a stop outside the late mage's study, and she pauses with her hand on the door. "There's going to be information in here that could cripple Kiev if shared with the wrong party. Please understand that I'm not letting you inside lightly."

Yuuri nods, his face solemn, "I understand."

For anyone else, that would be enough to push the door open and move on. Mila does push the door open, waves Yuuri inside without another word, but his response inspires no confidence as she watches Yuuri enter Romanov's study.

He pauses just inside the door, taking in his surroundings.

"It's intense, isn't it?" she hums, moving level with him, giving the study a cursory scan of her own.

The back wall of the study is made of glass, sunlight washes into the room unfiltered. All of the other wall space is taken up by overcrowded bookshelves. Charms and trinkets are visible everywhere she looks: dangling from the ceiling, hanging out of tomes like bookmarks, filling baskets on the floor. There's a cold fireplace in the middle of the room, a cauldron sitting right next to it, braziers are settled every few feet and lanterns are on the edges of each table.

"He would have loved Ayutthaya," Yuuri murmurs, a sad edge to his smile as he moves further into the room.

"Ayutthaya?"

"The queen told me that she wanted to let Ilya retire there when Viktor became king."

Mila blinks: this is news to her. "And who did she think would replace Romanov?"

Yuuri hums, picking up a vial from a nearby table to study it in the light. "She didn't say."

That's what makes Yuuri so dangerous. There's no change in his vocal inflection, no difference in his body language, no tangible indication of a falsehood but Mila was trained to recognize a lie from infancy, and Yuuri is a liar.

Filing the incident away for later, Mila closes the door behind herself and locks it, "I hope you don't mind, it's the only way for me to get work done without being interrupted by messengers every fifteen minutes. I've still got a few journals to go through."

"I don't mind," his response is absentminded, as if he's already forgotten about her presence in the face of everything around them. Yuuri crosses to the table closest to the window and reaches for the one artifact that has the ability to make her skin crawl.

"Romanov said no one should touch that," she calls out.

Yuuri glances back at her with a reassuring smile, "I'll be fine. Thank you for the warning."

With that, he pulls off his glasses, setting them on a clear surface of the table, and he picks up the dagger from Viktor's duel. Mila doesn't know what she expected to happen—Viktor and Romanov treated the blade like it would burn whoever came in contact with it—but Yuuri merely lets out a low whistle.

Bringing his free hand up to his right arm, Yuuri rubs at the exact spot where Viktor was stabbed, "No wonder it hurt so much."

"What hurt so much?" she asks as she begins lighting the braziers.

There's not an answer right away, Yuuri merely turns the dagger over, running his gaze down the length of the blade. When he speaks, it's with a question of his own. "Our deal, is it still good?"

Massive threat to the crown or not, Mila can't deny that having Yuuri around is entertaining. She's never had to handle someone quite as interesting as him. "Sure, answer for an answer. What's your question?"

"Did Viktor tell the council?"

It's a vague question but they both know exactly what he means.

"Katsuki Yuuri has declared himself an ally to the King of Kiev and will ride out in five days to oppose the Atreides Empire," Mila says as she lights the last brazier, "the council was beside itself."

'Beside itself' is an understatement for the chaos that erupted at Viktor's announcement. Even Mila, who has always suspected Yuuri of being a Katsuki, was stunned by the declaration. For the dozens of knights and nobles who didn't have a clue, the announcement was monumental.

Yuuri isn't facing her, she can't clearly make out his facial expression, but she can see the way his jaw clenches. The moment passes in the blink of an eye, "The charm I gave Viktor was crafted to protect him from magical attacks, it's supposed to function as a shield but this attack was well done. Because the magic was laced with a physical object, my charm didn't stop the blade itself but it expelled the poisoning agent almost like a cleansing fire. I could feel every second of it." Yuuri puts the dagger on the table and turns away from it to study the room again, "any suggestions on where I should start?"

After explaining her basic understanding of how Romanov had the study laid out, Mila settles into a chair near the right wall with a journal of her own and a stack of the last few files she needs to get through before the army rides out. It's slow progress, her attention divided between her job and watching Yuuri.

He doesn't keep still, flitting between books and charms, journals and vialed potions every few minutes. Despite the way the gravity of their circumstances is clearly on his mind, there's also a sense of excitement around him as he goes through all of the information in the room, like a child in a sweet shop.

Glasses remain on the far table, as if forgotten. Realistically, Mila knows that glass lenses don't alter the appearance of someone's eyes drastically. However, she thinks she sometimes catches sparks of gold in his gaze as he bounces back and forth.

A crackle of static energy seems to grow around Yuuri the longer they stay in the study. She's afraid that if she reached out when he passed her, she would receive a shock similar to being struck by lightning. There's something distinctly otherworldly about Katsuki Yuuri, and it's alluring and terrifying all at once.

Forcing herself to concentrate on her work, Mila spares a passing hope that Yuuri is honest about his intentions.

If this mage has any desire to do Kiev harm, Mila's not sure the kingdom would be able to withstand it.

She knows Viktor wouldn't be able to survive it.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri spends the better part of the next two days in Romanov’s study. He reads hundreds upon thousands of words on magical theory, reluctantly skipping information that isn’t applicable to a war with the hopes that he’ll get a chance to study the material that really draws his attention another day, after the war. In the late mage’s study, it’s almost easy to forget about the upcoming battle and to focus on the pure joy Yuuri once found in learning about his magic.

Even with Mila in the corner, frantically making notes in a journal of her own that would no doubt get presented to Viktor at the end of each day, Yuuri is able to mostly ignore the grim reason why he has unfettered access to the study in favor of growing his knowledge.

The blissful state of denial comes to an end toward the end of Yuuri’s third day in Romanov’s study when he stumbles upon a locked chest at the bottom of one of the bookshelves. Tugging the chest out from the shadows, Yuuri frowns at the heavy padlock that glitters with magical residue in his vision. Narrowing his eyes, Yuuri shifts his Sight until he can see more magic pouring out of the small gap between the chest’s lid and body.

“We tried to break the lock a few days before you arrived,” Mila announces, and Yuuri glances over his shoulder to nod in greeting as Mila steps inside the study. She had been gone for meetings all afternoon (and Yuuri doesn’t envy her).

He hums, turning back to consider the lock, “No, I don’t suppose they wanted this chest opened.”

“Who?”

Yuuri shrugs, “I’m not sure. This isn’t Romanov’s work.”

Soft footsteps approach and pause just behind Yuuri. “Can you open it?”

Pursing his lips, Yuuri draws on his magic and concentrates it just on the tip of his pointer finger. Cautiously, he taps it against the padlock and immediately yanks his hand back with a hiss at the spark of pain that lances through it. Shaking out his injured hand, Yuuri gets to his feet, “I might be able to, but it would take more time than I have to figure it out.”

“Pity, I would love to know what’s inside,” Mila says, eying the chest warily before seemingly dismissing it altogether. She holds out a sealed note with Yuuri’s name—family name included—on front. “For you.”

Taking the note, Yuuri asks, “What is it?”

“Your orders, for the war.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows fly up at the statement, “My orders?”

“Where you’ll be stationed, your duties, that sort of thing,” Mila explains.

“I know what it means,” Yuuri mumbles, turning the sealed note over in his fingers, “I just don’t understand why I would be getting them at all since I’m not a soldier, much less how it was decided where I’ll be most effective when Viktor hasn’t even asked what I’m capable of.”

Mila shrugs, “Since you don’t have any official capacity in this court, and no one has actual proof of your identity, his hands are mostly tied in that regards. The greater war council wants to make sure of your loyalty before giving you any type of leeway, and they don’t want to rely on you for victory.”

“So they’re playing politics even though there’s an army murdering innocents civilians?” Yuuri asks, more than a little irritated.

“It’s all they know how to do. Are you going to read it?”

Biting back a scowl, Yuuri brushes his fingers over the seal: a flash of heat making the wax melt enough for him to open the paper. The document is official, no doubt written by one of the handful of scribes Yuuri saw on his only visit to Viktor’s study. Yuuri scans the note quickly before glancing up at Mila. “They want me in charge of the medical tent?”

With a nod, Mila expands, “We have a handful of trained nurses that are part of the army reserves, but most of the nurses will be volunteers from the capital and nearby villages. Someone needs to be in charge of the setup and organization of it all. Your work to heal the late queen gives you credibility in the role.”

“And who is going to be handling the Great Mage while I nurse the wounded?”

She rolls her eyes, “I asked the same question and no one had a satisfactory answer. Sorry, Yuuri, they don’t trust you.”

Yuuri folds the document and tosses it onto the nearest table. A sense of relief fills his body at the knowledge that he won’t have to go head-on with the mage, that the people making decisions about how to protect the kingdom don’t want Yuuri to do anything except what he’s been doing for most of his life. He’s good at healing people.

However, being relegated to a reserve role due to lack of trust makes him uneasy. The way Mila picks her words is always deliberate, and he wonders if distancing herself from the people who don’t trust him is a tactic or some semblance of honesty. More than that, Yuuri wants to know who else is included in those who don’t trust him. Throwing caution to the wind, he asks, “Truth for truth?”

It seems to surprise Mila, but she nods immediately, “What’s your question?”

“Does Viktor agree with the council’s decision?”

Mila tilts her head, considering Yuuri for a long moment; it’s clear that she recognizes the real question behind Yuuri’s words, but she lets the silence stretch between them until it’s almost stifling. Finally, she shrugs, “We haven’t gotten to speak alone on the matter yet. I think Viktor agrees with where they want to place you: he would prefer not to have you on the front lines but I get the impression that his preference is based on keeping you as far away from the war as possible than a matter of trust.” She clicks her tongue, “one day you’ll have to actually ask Viktor these questions instead of relying on my interpretations.”

“You read people well, Mila, and you’re easier to ask,” Yuuri admits, giving her a slight smile of gratitude. “Your question?”

“If the Great Mage attacks the front lines, would you abandon your post to face them?”

Yuuri’s breath hitches, the question almost brutal in the picture it paints. There’s nothing but cool calculation in Mila’s eyes as she watches him, no doubt keeping track of his reaction, trying to guess his answer before Yuuri even voices it.

Dropping her gaze, he glances out the windows that make up the back wall, where the sun is sinking below the horizon, as he tries to envision what it will be like when the battle comes to a head. He thinks back to the extreme might of the other magic user, to the way they kill without hesitation and with apparent ease. Facing them would be nothing short of terrifying, and Yuuri’s not even sure he would win.

But he has the best chance of coming out alive than anyone else in the Kievan army.

“Yes, I would.”

“Abandoning your post would give the council reason to call you a traitor. Demonstrating that you’re more powerful than they anticipated and difficult to control will give them the motive to do it.” She presses.

“I know,” Yuuri says, “but I have no intention of sitting aside and watching another mage cause havoc, not if there’s a chance I can stop them.”

Mila’s eyes flick between his own, as if trying to catch on in a lie, before a smirk curls onto her lips. “So, this is Katsuki Yuuri.”

He gives her a shrug and turns back to the bookshelves, more determined than before to absorb all the knowledge he can before riding out. If the politicians in Kiev don’t want Yuuri fighting, he’ll use all of his power to make sure as many soldiers as possible will get to go home. However, Yuuri can’t quite believe that he will be able to get away with riding to the battle only to stay back and be a healer.

Somewhere out there, likely among the Atreides vanguard, is a mage that has tried to kill Viktor at least three times already. A mage that knows Yuuri is directly responsible for thwarting their plans at least twice, who probably suspects it was Yuuri’s magic that saved Viktor all three times. A mage that has already sensed Yuuri’s magical signature and will be able to recognize it the moment Yuuri gets close.

They won’t be able to keep dancing around each other. Yuuri wouldn’t be surprised if the mage attacked him in the medical tent, regardless of how far away from the front lines it will sit.

Being prepared is a matter of life and death at this point, and Yuuri needs to find a more sustainable way to cause harm with his magic. Collapsing after one attack isn’t going to do anyone much good. The thought process brings a wry smile to his lips—the fact that Mila sees this side of Yuuri and associates it with the Katsukis is a slight to the legacy his family built, a legacy Yuuri might just single-handedly bring crashing down.

The Katsukis never caused harm. In fact, it was their job to bring justice to those who abused their powers, to stop people from learning how to do exactly what Yuuri seeks to learn now.

Despite what he told Mila early, Yuuri kneels back in front of the chest and studies it again. Something about it, about the fierce protection spells around it, tells Yuuri that _this_ is exactly what he needs if he wants to make sure the people he cares about make it home safe.

“Mila,” Yuuri says, “can you come stand directly behind me?”

“Why?”

He glances up at her, “I’m going to try and open this chest, and I don’t know what kind of backlash might come along with it.”

Mila’s eyes widen, “And standing behind you is going to make sure I stay in one piece?”

“Standing outside would make sure you stay in one piece, but I’m assuming you don’t want to do that.”

She laughs and picks up her notebooks, moving to stand behind him, “You know me so well, Yuuri.”

Letting out a chuckle of his own, Yuuri returns his focus to the chest. He runs his hands over the edge of the lid before tapping the padlock, rapidly considering and throwing away theories until he’s struck with an idea. It’s a long shot, but once the idea comes to mind Yuuri isn’t able to move past it.

Deciding to trust his gut, Yuuri gets up and moves to the table by the window, picking up the magic-laced dagger. Hatred radiates from the hilt, and Yuuri scowls at the blade, forcing the magic on it to remain dormant for just a few seconds more. Once he has it under control, he returns to kneel in front of the chest.

Holding his breath in anticipation, Yuuri presses the tip of the blade into the keyhole and flicks it up. Red light flares in his Sight and he swears as the hilt of the dagger flashes white-hot. Refusing to drop his grip, Yuuri wiggles the dagger some more, squinting against the flood of magic to keep an eye on the actual chest and lock.

The smell of cooking meat wafts up from his hand and Yuuri can feel his skin burning—it’s a sensation he’s largely unfamiliar with, the pain much more intense than he ever imagined—but he merely braces his right arm with his free hand and forces the tip of the dagger to turn slightly to the right.

A click echoes in his ears and the padlock springs open. Dropping the blade, Yuuri stumbles back, his chest heaving.

Hands brace him, keeping him from falling, and Mila sinks to her knees beside him. “What the hell was that?”

Yuuri turns his right hand over, wincing at the brightness of his palm, “Just a hunch.”

“A hunch?” she repeats incredulously, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up to study the burn, “it’ll be a miracle if you can use that hand by the end of the week.”

Curling his fingers in, Yuuri brings his closed fist up to rest against his chest and gives Mila a reassuring smile, “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. Even if this chest doesn’t contain what I think it does, it’s worth it.”

Mila looks thoroughly exasperated at this point. With a huff, she tucks her hair behind her ear, “And why is that?”

“The magic on that dagger is intended to destroy what it touches, which is why it’s dangerous; the magic on that padlock is meant to protect from attacks, which is why it lashed out when I used my magic on it,” Yuuri explains, pushing onto his knees and crawling toward the chest. “The padlock only opened because it couldn’t reject the dagger’s magic.”

“Yuuri, I’ve been reading Romanov’s rambling for way too many days to follow what you’re saying.”

Using his uninjured hand, Yuuri slips the padlock from the chest and pushes the lid up, considering the contents of the trunk. “Magic can’t reject itself. The spells were created by the same person.”

“How is that possible?”

Yuuri picks up a journal and flips it open, running his gaze over the scratchy handwriting that fills the pages. It’s leagues apart from the even curls and loops of Romanov’s script, but the contents of the notes are the most distinct contrast between the late mage and the one who filled the journal. He flips to the next page, scanning its contents and then flipping to the next. Bile rises in his throat at the knowledge of what the writer was attempting to do.

This was the sort of mage the Katsukis were supposed to prevent from causing harm. Yuuri wonders if borrowing techniques developed by such a mage in order to stop them makes him any better. He knows that he doesn’t have much of a choice.

“ _Yuuri_.” Mila’s voice tugs him out of his thoughts, and he glances over at her. Her face is pale as she repeats her question. “How is it possible that the spells were made by the same person?”

With a sigh, Yuuri holds up the journal, “What do you know of the Royal Mage that preceded Romanov?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original outline for this chapter would've doubled the size so I decided to cut it here and save the rest for the next chapter. I'm not sure how y'all feel about 10k+ chapters but I know that editing them makes me go slightly insane.
> 
>  
> 
> **Some Worldbuilding Notes:**
> 
> **What's up with Yuuri's accent?:** The last time his accent was mentioned was in chapter one, and if you can remember that far back you deserve a cookie. Yuuri's fluent in four languages (besides his native tongue they are Kievan, Ayutthayan, and Traveler) and has spent a lot of time traveling with Minako since he was a child, both of these things have naturally dimmed his accent. On top of that, he's done his best to get rid of indicators of where he's from so he has spent time consciously trying to make sure his accent isn't noticeable. For the languages that Yuuri speaks, the only real time his accent is present is when he says a word or phrase from Yamatai, like his name.

> 
> Chapter Song: _Where Do We Go From Here?_ by Ruelle.


	17. the law of magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri studies the mage's journals. Kiev rides south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you follow me on tumblr you may have seen me mention my original rough draft of this chapter was almost 16 thousand words. However, when I went to do edits I decided there was a distinct shift in the chapter that justified breaking it in half and creating two chapters instead. Since this means the next chapter is just waiting for edits, I'll be posting it on Friday so there'll be two updates this week!
> 
> [Click here to see the world maps.](https://lovingnikiforov.tumblr.com/ee)  
>    
>  **Listen to the[Fic Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq) on Spotify.** This chapter: song #15

_Day 4 of the 12th moon. Year 1131._

The stagnation of magekind is an embarrassment.

We cling to tradition and rituals while humankind strides forward with innovation and creativity that will one day leave us behind. And what are the humans to make such developments when their bodies are too frail to contain the might of magic? When their minds are too small to grasp the intricacies of nature and our place in this world to have a hope of understanding theories that mage children are taught in infancy. Such inferior creatures, yet we cling to the shadows, afraid of the mob mentality of their hive minds. We bow and scrape to their royalty for just a drop of respect within their society. If we fall too far behind humanity, they will one day wipe us out.

In order to prevent such a tragedy, to not just survive but to thrive as a community, we must push ourselves forward. We must challenge the rules we have taken for granted since the days of the First Mage. Accepting our limitations as truth without attempting to overcome them is nothing short of criminal complacency.

Of course, such opinions would be considered radical in most mage societies. In this, I am somewhat grateful to be shackled to the Nikiforov family. For all that my days are wasted in this court of snakes, that this frigid kingdom has but two seasons, that quality of life is as stiff as its monarch, I am at least beyond the reach of the Magic Keeper here.

My work may be called blasphemous by those with small minds and smaller ambitions, but it will move magekind away from our existence on the fringes of civilization. As much power that flows through our veins, we deserve more than life in the shadows.

There is little I will not sacrifice for this greater goal.

 

* * *

 

A small army is gathered in the castle courtyard, urgency laced within each movement of everyone present despite the dawn hour and the cold temperatures. From her position on the castle steps, Mila runs her gaze over the teeming mass of bodies, horses, and carriages. Riders constantly trot in and out the courtyard, relaying orders and instructions from the company within the courtyard and the hundreds of riders getting into formation just outside the city gates.

War in her lifetime was not an idea Mila ever seriously entertained. Yet, here they are.

In mere hours, the Kievan army will ride out, heading south. Within twelve days they plan to cut off the Atreides advance and—gods willing—win the ensuing battle, buying the kingdom time to come up with a sustainable strategy for after the snows melt.

There's too much to chance, and Mila's jaw clenches at the prospect of all the things that could go wrong.

The enemy army could move faster than they anticipated, cutting off crucial time to allow more troops to muster. It's more than likely that the sheer numbers of the Atreides Empire will overwhelm the Kievan troops. There is a non-zero probability that the soldiers that ride out from the city gates will never return to the capital, to their friends, or to their families ever again.

And, spymaster that she is, Mila is relegated to the capital city. Forced to stay and wait for word while her friends ride toward possible doom.

It's infuriating.

Footsteps sound behind her and Mila glances over her shoulder, inclining her head respectfully as Viktor strides out of the palace entryway. He's dressed in light armor, voice sharp as he dictates a message to the servant struggling to keep pace with him.

Blue eyes flick to her and Viktor quickly wraps up with the servant before nodding the man away and coming to a stop next to her.

Despite the fact that she already knows what his response will be, Mila says, "I can manage my people from the road."

The corner of Viktor's mouth curls up in bemusement before he regains control of his facial expressions. "You made that quite clear to the council the other day, and it was still decided that you should remain in the city."

Mila lets out a slight sigh, "I'm stuck here while my friends are out there risking their lives. I don't like it, Viktor."

"I know," he murmurs, "for what it's worth, I'd feel better if you were on the road with us, but you're also one of the only people I trust to keep an eye on things while I'm gone."

Giving up on the last-ditch attempt, Mila glances back over the bustle in the courtyard, "Have you talked to Yurio?"

"You know the answer to that."

"You've been busy, but he's your squire, he's around you a lot," Mila counters, picking out the young man among the horses, checking supplies in saddlebags, "this is going to be his first actual battle."

"He'll be fine. Yuri has got the makings of a master swordsman."

Lips pressing into a thin line, Mila says, "He's fifteen."

"If I could leave the squires here in the capital, I would in a heartbeat, but we need all the manpower we can get," Viktor murmurs, sounding exhausted at the admission in a way that tugs Mila's gaze back to him. His brows are furrowed, frustration clear on his face. "It's on my order that we're riding out, if I spend time worrying about each underage fighter I won't be able to do this."

She considers Viktor, taking in the full weight of his words, the way they're tinged with an emotion (guilt? fear?) and takes pity on him. "Remind me to light incense sometime to thank the gods that you're the monarch and I'm not."

It pulls a hollow laugh from the man beside her, "You never need a reminder for anything, Mila."

Mila responds with a wink, and they fall into a silence that’s slightly too tense to be considered companionable. Turning her attention back to the chaos in the courtyard, Mila’s eyes are caught by the man directing a small group of servants and nurses as they put away medical supplies. It’s hard to reconcile him with the shy village healer Mila met in the woods so many weeks ago. Yuuri looks to be in his element, commanding the respect of the nurses and midwives he’ll be responsible for during the campaign.

He also looks slightly off. Mila can’t quite put her finger on what about Yuuri has changed over the last few days to pull the twinge of concern out of her belly, but she can pinpoint exactly when the change happened.

It was the trunk in Romanov’s office.

Besides the initial journal Yuuri pulled out, there were a dozen more stacked against a side. Among the journals were instruments and tools that Mila couldn’t even begin to guess at their purposes. There were vials of potions and ingredients that made Yuuri’s face go pale when he held them to the light.

Despite his obvious discomfort, he insisted on going through the entire trunk, and she knows among one of his saddlebags are nearly half the journals within the trunk for continued study on the ride south.

“Have any of the council members been informed of the old mage’s belongings?” Mila murmurs.

There’s a sharp intake of breath next to her before Viktor replies, “When my mother banished that mage, she did so quietly for a reason. Letting the council members know we have evidence of the mage dabbling in dark magic would cause panic: we can’t afford for panic to seep into our leadership.”

It’s a smart decision, and Mila nods in agreement. “Do you intend to receive reports from Yuuri as he studies the journals?”

“I’ll save a full report for after we win the upcoming battle.”

His answer comes too quickly, and Mila’s gaze flicks back to Viktor. She runs her eyes over her friend’s face, taking in the professional blankness in his expression and the tension in his jaw. After a long moment, Mila asks, “Are you avoiding him?”

Viktor rolls his eyes, “I don’t have time to avoid anyone, Mila. I simply don’t have an understanding of magic and will need my focus on the physical aspect of the battle.”

Humming thoughtfully, Mila ignores his response and muses, “Is it because you don’t know how to handle him as Katsuki Yuuri or that he continually lied to you?”

Blue eyes finally drag from the courtyard to meet Mila's. They're...pleading. "Not now, Mila. Please."

Viktor Nikiforov doesn't plead.

Biting back the urge to ask half-a-dozen questions, her mild curiosity now burning based on Viktor's reaction, Mila feigns a nonchalant shrug and launches into a short report on the latest information she received from the road south. The pleading in blue eyes vanishes as if it was never there, his gaze sharpening as he commits all of her information to memory. For a moment, it's just like any other report she's given him since they were both thrust into their respective roles.

Except, it's not like any other report. It may be the last report she gives to him.

The thought makes Mila stumble on her words, makes her nails dig into the skin of her palms.

Viktor blinks, surprised at her slip, before his face softens slightly and he says, "I'm going to make it home, Mila."

"I know." She wishes she's as confident in her answer as she sounds.

"Your Majesty, we're ready for you to inspect the officers." A messenger stops just within earshot, bowing as he speaks.

"Give us a moment," Viktor replies.

Immediately, the messenger nods, backing up further so he's out of earshot before turning his back on the pair. Viktor holds out a hand, expectant, and only has to wait a moment before Mila places her own in his.

"People are going to die on that battlefield, but I will not be one of them. We still have quite a lot of work to get through, and I have no plans of leaving you to handle it on your own, Lady Babicheva."

His formal speech is laced with dips and rises that turn the entire declaration into a performance, and Mila feels the corners of her lips tugging up into a smile. Viktor winks at her and presses his lips to the back of her hand before letting it fall with a dramatic flourish.

"Until we meet again, my lady."

Laughing slightly, Mila dips into an overly dramatic curtsey of her own, "Until then, Your Majesty."

With a nod, Viktor moves toward the waiting messenger. Mila watches him go, turning their conversation over in her mind as her eyes return to study the mage (and likely Great Mage) standing at the back of a carriage and giving orders on how to rearrange stock.

Her gut tells her that regardless of how many fighters are with the Atreides army, they are not prepared to face Katsuki Yuuri in battle. And despite being relegated to the medical tent, Mila can't shake the feeling that Yuuri will find himself in the middle of the fight.

She can only hope that, if such a thing happens, Yuuri will protect those closest to him, that his presence will help her friends make it back alive.

"Papochka, am I doing this right?" Mila mumbles into the thin air, on the off-chance that her father is looking over her.

She can't stomach burying any more of her loved ones.

As if aware of her thoughts, brown eyes lock on Mila's, sharp even behind large glasses. Mila mouths the words, tells Yuuri to keep them safe. It's impossible for him to have heard her, and she's not sure they're close enough for him to read her lips, but Yuuri nods and smiles at her anyways: as if he knows exactly what she said. Somehow, it’s reassuring.

There's nothing left for her to do now but wait.

 

* * *

 

_Day 5 of the 12th moon. Year 1131._

There is only one natural "law" to magic. Beyond this law, magic is considered to be limited only by a mage's potential and by their mental fortitude. Of course, there are laws created by magekind in order to limit the "misuse" of power, but these are not laws that can be changed through experimentation but rather require the use of politics and force. Changing those laws is an endeavor for the future.

For now, my focus is on the singular natural law of magic: The Law of Equivalent Exchange. In its most simplistic terms, it refers to the idea that everything has a price. To put it in more academic terms, this law states that our world exists in a zero-sum: no energy can be used unless it is pulled from elsewhere, nothing is ever truly destroyed but rather recycled into something new.

By our very existence, mages challenge this theory. After all, where does the energy of our magic come from? What aspect of our world has lost power so that we may wield it? Some scholars argue that this is why there are so few mages, and why our numbers dwindle as the human population grows. The birth of one mage may be equivalent to that of ten, twenty, or even fifty humans: depending on the strength of the mage. If one switches the equation around, it explains why there are increasingly fewer mages born in contrast to the never-ending growth of humanity.

I believe that this theory only partially explains the power our people control. The real hole in this theory is obvious when considering the sheer magnitude of strength wielded by Great Mages, by the likes of the Katsuki clan among others. The amount of power within their control is not represented in any other aspect of our universe. If it were, there would be a seismic shift when such a mage is killed or dies of natural causes.

Magic is inherent in our bodies, and while the depletion of magic and the subsequent physical toll on the user is considered one such manifestation of Equivalent Exchange, the blind faith in the omnipotence of this law only limits our ability.

What if the Law of Equivalent Exchange were not an absolute?

What if there are instances where magical use may not have an inherent price, and by controlling how we expend our magic we can prevent the equivalent reaction from occurring?

What if we could determine which price we intend to pay for each magical working?

It is these three questions I intend to answer, and it is my firm belief that the answer to each is different than what has been taught to our kind for so many generations.

 

* * *

 

"Oi! Storyteller!"

The shout pulls Yuuri from his concentration, and he looks up from the journal in his hands to blink at the brightness of the late morning. Instead of riding the horse Phichit gave him for his journey back to the palace, Yuuri has been settled in one of the wagons carrying medical supplies: determined to read as much of the old mage's writing as possible.

There's only one person in all of the caravan of soldiers that still address him by that title. Yuuri glances over his shoulder to find Yurio riding abreast with the wagon, scowling at him.

"You've been reading that thing all day, every day, since we moved out. What's so damn important about it?"

Yuuri tilts his head, considering the question. He's under the impression that Mila, and by extension Viktor, have kept the existence of the journals quiet. However, he was never expressly sworn to secrecy about their contents: though he has no intentions of sharing what's inside with anyone until he can determine the extent of the legitimacy of the mage's theories and the impacts they could have on their world.

"It's a journal discussing some magical theory," Yuuri replies, keeping his voice light, "even though the war council wants me to stay with the medical tents, it doesn't hurt for me to work on my magic whenever possible. Just in case."

"Just in case of what?"

The existence of the Great Mage within the enemy numbers is also kept on a need-to-know basis. It's no surprise that Yurio wasn’t told. For all that he's friends with Mila and seemingly close with Viktor, he's still young and isn't involved in the politics of the palace.

Realization dawns on Yurio's face, and he glances around to make sure there are no eavesdroppers before murmuring, "Whoever attacked the banquet. You think they might be involved with this?"

Shrugging, Yuuri says, "It's hard to say: I don't know much about the attacker to begin with. I just want to be prepared."

Rolling his eyes, Yurio looks away, "You're just as bad as the rest of them."

"The rest of them?"

"Mila and Viktor, sometimes Chris too. Lying all the time and pretending it's nothing."

The response tugs at Yuuri's gut. After lying for so long and so often, it's all but second-nature to him. It isn't until someone points it out that he recognizes that his outlook on falsehoods isn't normal. Yurio doesn't seem upset, merely resigned to the fact that the people around him aren't truthful, but it reminds Yuuri of the hurt in Viktor's voice—in Viktor’s eyes: obvious despite how hard he tried to look unaffected—when the truth about Yuuri’s identity finally came out.

Yuuri had always thought of his lies as protection, as a barrier between himself and a world that wanted so desperately to do him harm.

Up until meeting an excitable swordsman at the Midsummer's Festival, Yuuri's lies had always kept him from getting close to anyone. And now that he's let people in, has come to consider Yurio and even Mila and Christophe as friends. Now that he has seen Viktor at his most vulnerable, has become so invested in Viktor's well-being that he's riding off to war to help protect him, Yuuri's afraid that his lies are going to destroy the small slice of a community he's unwittingly stumbled into.

"We don't have any concrete evidence," Yuuri finally says, voice barely audible over the sound of the wagon wheels and jingle of armor.

It seems to surprise Yurio. He glances back at Yuuri, eyes wide, "But Mila thinks...?" Yuuri merely nods, and Yurio swears under his breath before saying. "You're stronger than that mage, though, you were able to fend them off when they tried to..." Yurio trails off, unable to completely suppress the shudder that runs down his back at the memory of how close he was to death.

Yuuri sighs, letting the pages of the journal flick through his fingers. "I might be, but they were able to kill a dozen high-level officials right under my nose. I wasn't able to protect the whole hall, so I wanted to find the spellcaster and cut them off."

"You didn't find them?"

A sheepish smile curls onto Yuuri's lips, "I lost my temper when they tried to attack you. They retreated immediately afterward."

Yurio's face is unreadable. Too many expressions flash through his eyes in too little time to let Yuuri recognize any of them. Eventually, Yurio says, "I never thanked you for that. For saving my life."

"It really wasn't-" Yuuri begins, preparing to brush off the incident because, after all, he let so many others die. He had actively chosen not to try and save any of the other victims in favor of trying to hunt down the mage. If he had stopped the first tendril of magic instead of waiting to see what the spell was, there's a chance no one would have died. He would've prevented Mila the heartache of losing her father, he would have-

He doesn't get to vocalize any of his remorse out loud, doesn't even get to finish his thoughts, because Yurio cuts him off with a scoff. "You saved my damn life, storyteller, let me at least say thank you because it won't happen again. Though I don't know how someone as unassuming as you are managed to be anything besides a scam artist."

The snapped comment is so utterly in line with the squire's fiery personality that Yuuri can’t help but smile. "You're welcome."

Pink tinges the top of Yurio's ears, and he coughs, glancing away for a moment before asking. "So, how do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Since it's not a trick, how do you do that stuff with the fire and the water and the wind? From your gimmick at the festival."

Yuuri's smile widens, and he shifts in his seat so he can properly face Yurio, putting the journal aside for a moment. "It's nothing fancy really, I just talk to them."

Yurio blinks, "You talk to the fire?"

With a nod, Yuuri explains, "All of the elements have their own language. When I was a child, my mother taught them all to me so I could speak to them. It's not really magic so much as just making friends with the fire."

"It's not magic?" Yuuri shakes his head, and a spark of determination fills Yurio's gaze. "So I could do it too."

That stuns Yuuri into silence. He stares at the younger man, taking in how ready for the challenge Yurio is, before pursing his lips thoughtfully. Phichit learned how to do it, but Yuuri had assumed Phichit only learned because he already had an inclination for magic. Was it possible for a normal human to learn the languages?

Drumming his fingers, Yuuri's nails pad against the leather binding of the journal. The words of the old Royal Mage flicker to the forefront of his mind. If—and it's a big 'if', one Yuuri's not quite sure he believes to be possible—the Law of Equivalent Exchange isn't as absolute as mages thought, then it's possible there are other magical rules that aren't true either. And it's not as if the Katsuki clan ever taught the skill to any other mages, much less a human, so the possibility has never really been tested.

"I'm not sure if it's possible to do without having magic," Yuuri says, the words leaving his mouth slowly, still thinking them through until they're out in the open. "But, I could try to teach you."

"You'd better be a better teacher than Viktor. That old man just runs me to the ground and forgets about practices for days whenever anything big happens."

"I haven't done a lot of teaching, but I could try."

Someone calls for Yurio from down the line, and he glances over his shoulder and waves acknowledgment before nodding decisively. "After this is over, when we get back to the capital."

Yurio's voice is completely confident about the set time for the lessons, but Yuuri doesn't voice any kind of doubts about the time of the lesson being questionable: he'd prefer to assume they'll all make it alive just as well.

So, Yuuri nods and waves the younger man away as Yurio wheels his horse around and travels against the flow of the caravan to where his presence was requested. When Yurio has melted into the mass of soldiers, Yuuri lets his eyes drop to the cover of the journal, a slight frown pulling on his lips.

The author of the theories in his hand was expelled from Kiev for practicing taboos. After being able to open the trunk with the poisoned dagger, there's no doubt in Yuuri's mind that the mage behind the attempts on Viktor's life—the mage that murdered Queen Isidora—is the same as the one who penned the journal.

There's malicious intent behind the words he's been reading, but Yuuri can't quite reconcile the horrible actions of the mage with the legitimacy of the questions being asked on each page.

If he learns from a mage who represents everything he was taught not to do as a child, everything that the Katsuki clan abhorred, is he just as bad as they are?

By agreeing with some of the mage's points, is he in danger of following in their footsteps?

Somewhere along the way, there was a line crossed by this mage, and Yuuri doesn't have the same moral strength that his mother had, that his father and his sister exhibited. He isn't good like they were. Yuuri has done things he isn't proud of in the name of survival. Traveling with Minako, trying to get to safety, he has stolen belongings and secreted himself onto ships. He has killed with his magic, with his own hands. 

He doesn't know if he can learn from this mage, take their theories and implement them into his magic, without becoming as tainted as they clearly are.

Looking up from the journal, Yuuri lets his eyes flutter shut, and he murmurs, "Why am I doing this?"

Wind blows from his back, swirling around his body in an embrace before flying away. The breeze is warm, uncharacteristic of the cool temperatures of Kiev just before winter truly sets in. Yuuri sighs into the wind, no matter how constant of a friend it's been, he can't really expect it to have the answer to such a question.

Suddenly, the direction of the breeze shifts. Doubling back on itself in such an unnatural fashion that Yuuri opens his eyes to look around, curious if any of the nearby riders noticed the odd change. A few look around, confused, but none seem to connect the wind's behavior to the presence of a mage.

Relaxing back into the wagon, Yuuri huffs at the air as it ruffles his hair, intent on making it clear how much he would like the wind not to cause a scene.

 A snippet of conversation is carried on the breeze that drifts past his ear. Two men murmuring softly to each other, both voices immediately recognizable.

"You could just talk to him," Christophe says.

A sigh: carried so carefully by the wind that Yuuri feels like Viktor's breath blows right against his cheek. "I know, I just...want to give him some space? There's a lot for him to handle. Besides..."

"...besides?"

"He never wanted any of this. I feel like it's my fault."

"It's his decision, but if he made it because of you that's all the more reason to talk to him, mon ami."

The conversation flies past Yuuri, and he turns, following the direction of the breeze with his gaze. Viktor's words replay over and over again in his mind. Despite the moral turmoil of his days lost reading the journals, the ache in his chest whenever he came across Viktor in the palace corridors and they acted like strangers, a smile grows on his face.

With renewed conviction, Yuuri settles back into his seat and cracks open the journal, devoting himself to studying the notes once more.

 

* * *

 

_Day 19 of the 5th moon. Year 1132._

The last several months have been full of research.

While Kiev is all but a magical desert when it comes to other users and resources for our kind, the royal library is surprisingly rich in magical texts. Of course, none of the humans understand the knowledge within the tomes, but that merely means I can remove them from the library and keep them stocked on my shelves for easy access.

I have read as much as one can about the origins of magic users and our practices. While every magical child is familiar with the tale of Katsuki Asami, the growth of mage society is often left out of our fairy tales. It's a question that many of us do not think to ask, but surely we do not believe the Moon was the one who named the Katsuki family both judge and jury for our people, it was not the Moon who determined mage law. Through all of my research, it was Asami herself who first put the concept of Equivalent Exchange into words.

All of our limitations seem to be our own creation.

It is well documented that the price a magic user pays when using their ability for harm is exponentially greater than when their magic is used for good. If I were to walk from this study and turn my powers to healing the masses, I could nurse a dozen people back to health from fever in the span of two days and still have the strength to light a path back to my study. If I wanted to kill those dozen humans instead, I could perhaps take the lives of two or three before the sheer intensity of the backlash made it physically impossible for me to continue or until my body broke down under the weight of the ‘equivalent’ payment.

What determines the equivalence of our actions?

The sheer fact that I would have to take more than one life before the backlash became fatal indicates that the lives of humanity are viewed as lesser in the scope of our world than that of the lives of magekind.

Our people preach that the Moon’s benevolent intent when bestowing Asami with magic means that magic is inherently benevolent in nature. They use this to explain why malicious workings are more dangerous to the mage. I do not believe this to be the case: after all, the Moon is not inherently benevolent. The Moon controls the tides and they will take life as indiscriminately as any other natural force. If this belief surrounding the nature of magic were the truth, it would be nearly impossible to hurt with magic and it is in fact quite simple if one is cautious in how they undergo the act.

During the first moon, I began my experiments. While the backlash inherent in taking a human life is the most significant example of Equivalent Exchange limiting mage’s ability, it would be a fool’s errand to begin my trails there. I started small: using my magic the same way repeatedly and keeping track of the exchange. By cataloging the reaction, I was able to determine that Equivalent Exchange has no set barter: the same magical working does not evoke the same exchange.

If the universe does not have set equivalencies, it leads me to believe that the cost mages pay for our magic is not truly a matter of equal portions. It does not matter as much that we pay equivalent to what we took, but that we make a payment of some kind.

And if all the universe requires is a payment, then we should be able to have some determination of how our debt is paid.

I have not found a way to communicate with whatever entity oversees our use of magic: if I had, the next phase of my testing would be laughably simple. Without knowledge of what determines the cost of magic or how our payment is chosen and exacted, I was forced to resort to folklore and legends.

Across these ancient children's’ tales, I was struck again and again by the concept of magic use being described as a barter rather than a transaction.

If we offer the payment before performing the magic, does the universe accept that as the ‘Equivalent Exchange’?

If the payment we offer is not deemed ‘equivalent’ by the universe, will it bypass the offering entirely and enact its own?

My tests are, as yet, still incomplete, but I have strong evidence that once both of the above questions are answered, magekind will be able to make advances previously thought beyond the limits of our abilities.

 

* * *

 

A fading campfire is not the ideal lighting for the work Yuuri is trying to do, but it’s better than candlelight and he doesn’t want to draw much attention by stoking the flames higher. When he packed his belongings for the campaign south, Yuuri wasn’t necessarily expecting to be making a charm, but he finds himself doing it now, brow ruffled in concentration.

“I presumed you would be reading one of the journals.” Seung-gil doesn’t make noise when he approaches, and while Yuuri’s accepted that, he still hasn’t managed to stop being surprised by the other man’s sudden appearance and he jolts slightly before glancing up.

“There’s only so much of it I can stomach in one day,” Yuuri mumbles. Scratchy writing flashes in front of his gaze and he shakes his head to clear it. “During yesterday’s march I finally started reading about their experiments: they’re sickening.”

Seung-gil drops to a seat not far from Yuuri, studying him over the flickering fire, “Then why continue?”

“If they succeeded at what they’re trying to do, I need to know before we face them in battle, otherwise Kiev will be wiped out.”

A thoughtful hum is his only answer, and they fall into a companionable silence as Yuuri’s attention drops back to the charm in his hands. The iron frame was ready-made, one of dozens Yuuri used to keep in his shop for special requests. It’s a triangle, its purpose different from the amulet he crafted for Viktor. Yuuri’s halfway done with wrapping tight aluminum coils around the frame, and he goes back to work, heat radiating around his fingertips to ensure the metal is soft enough to work with.

When Yuuri finishes wrapping the aluminum, he picks up thin orange thread and begins to wrap it around the metal in loose spirals. At the sight of the thread, Seung-gil murmurs, “For communication?”

Yuuri nods: he’s long since stopped being shocked by the depth of Seung-gil’s magical knowledge.

“Who is it for?”

“This one is for Yurio,” Yuuri replies, but he pauses to reach into the bag at his feet and pull out another amulet, already finished: triangle, metal, and thread all imbued with his magic. “This one is for you.”

He holds it out expectantly, only having to wait a few seconds for Seung-gil to stretch toward him and take the amulet. The charm gets turned over in Seung-gil’s hands, and Yuuri doesn’t doubt it’s also getting dissected by the other man’s Sight.

“You should be reserving your strength,” Seung-gil comments.

“I’m fine,” Yuuri says, looking back down at his current project, “and this is important since they asked you to help with commanding soldiers during the battle. If you need to get my attention during the fight, the charm will know, and will tell me.”

“And what will you do? If myself or the squire need help?” the other man asks. “You were ordered to the medical tents and the sort of magical working you would need to do to get to the squire during the battle would be monumental.”

Yuuri’s movements don’t falter, but his hands aren’t as steady as they had been mere seconds ago. He’s not naive, he knows quite well what they’ll be faced with in just a few days, he knows quite well that even if Yurio or Seung-gil activate the charm, Yuuri might not be able to get to them fast enough. The prospect of what he’s facing, of what they’re all facing, isn’t any less terrifying due to his foreknowledge.

“I’m not going to let any more people die because of my inaction.”

“If Prince Chulanont learned that you were harmed because I asked you to come to my aide, he would be furious,” Seung-gil says.

Yuuri shakes his head, the mention of Phichit and his protective streak pushing his impending fear aside for a moment. He figured this would be Seung-gil's response, which is precisely why neither charm is actually activated at the wearer's will. Instead of waiting for a distress signal, Yuuri weaved a spell that will let him sense panic, and as much as he anticipates soldiers in a battle feeling that emotion to varying degrees, a growing wave of panic will be worth him getting a closer look at.

“I wish I could disagree with you on that, but what Phichit doesn't know won't hurt him." He glances up at Seung-gil and gives him a small smile. "You've done a lot for me over the short time we've known each other, and I'd like to call us friends. I don't leave my friends to fend for themselves."

 For a few seconds, there's no reply. The only noise between them is the crackle of the weak fire. Then, Seung-gil matches his smile with a small one of his own. "You might just be my most troublesome friend."

"I'm sure that's not hard given how long I imagine your list of friends is," Yuuri shoots back without pause.

"Of course, you would know from similar experience." Seung-gil's eyes are twinkling with amusement, and Yuuri lets out a huff of laughter: conceding the point. The other man gets to his feet, stretching slightly as he says, "you shouldn't stay up too late, we still have quite a ride to reach the battle location."

"Once I finish this I'll be turning in," Yuuri says with an absent-minded nod, turning his focus back to the charm.

Seung-gil steps away from the fire and starts toward the tents, pausing right behind Yuuri. "You know, growing up so far away from Serenity, and not having a general capacity for magic, I never put much stock in the Katsukis and the Magic Keeper."

"Good. You shouldn't," Yuuri mutters, his gut twisting at the reminder of his failure to his family legacy.

A hand drops on his shoulder, strength evident in the grip but gentle nonetheless, "You sell yourself short, Yuuri. If we get out of this in one piece, your presence in the realms will provide a lot of hope for other mages. You're more than I anticipated the Magic Keeper being."

"I'm not the Magic Keeper."

"Not yet." Seung-gil squeezes slightly before letting go and setting off toward their shared tent.

 

* * *

 

_Day 9 of the 6th moon. Year 1133._

I did it.

After over a year of experimentation, of trials going wrong, of draining my body of every last drop of magical power in favor of finding a way to circumvent the natural law that has held magekind captive since our creation, I found a way to control the exchange.

It’s laughably simple. In theory, all one has to do is offer the proposed repayment before undergoing the magical working. By sharing this information, I could fundamentally alter how magic is taught and practiced.

Of course, for practical purposes, there are some hurdles. Let's say a mage gets into a life or death situation, one where quick thinking and quicker spellwork is what will keep them alive. While functioning on adrenaline, is it likely that such a mage will have the wherewithal to make a proposed repayment before every spell they fire? Will they be able to calculate proper equivalence for each spell without making a payment so great that they cannot continue their fight? It would require mastery of this new technique or they would be left to rely on the universe's exchange.

And as for what is a proper offer of payment, it appears to depend on the intent of the magical working.

For workings of benevolent nature, I do not believe it necessary for an individual to do anything other than fall back on the age-old Equivalent Exchange. The drainage of power is inconsequential unless one is attempting to work a healing of miraculous proportions. It is possible to maximize the magical potential beyond "natural" limits by offering a payment of equal measure, but it is my belief that a mage can still overextend themselves with this technique: which would lead to death.

For better or for worse I have not found a way to bypass the disproportional backlash inherent in magic use meant to cause others harm. The key to workings of "malice" is that no equivalence exists unless pain is also undergone by the caster. The more harm you propose to incur, the more powerful the working.

In this, the mage with the most power is the one with the greatest strength of mind. How much suffering can you tolerate before being driven mad or giving up on your goal?

Think to earlier, when I explained killing two or three humans would be the upper limit of a mage like myself. I am no Great Mage by conventional standards, my magic is certainly not weak but I do not exist in the upper echelons of magical power. Yet, by offering payment before weaving a spell, I was able to take the lives of an entire block of beggars in the lower city (the humans have attributed the incident to a wave of sickness). Being bed-ridden for a day afterward was insignificant when one considers I killed nearly sixty humans over the course of a single night.

If I practice this skill. Find the upper limits of what the universe will accept as payment, how I can alter my spells to inflict the most damage, I will be unrivaled by any mage alive: let alone a fragile human.

By teaching this technique to others, a sect of mages uncowed by the growth of human civilization could carve out space for our people where we are not subservient to inferior beings.

The only limit I see in my future is that of my imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned above, the next chapter will be posted on Friday!
> 
> **Some Worldbuilding Notes:**
> 
> **Day 4 of the 12th moon. Year 1131:** So...this is third dating system shown in this story because I just can't keep things simple. Unlike the other two which are completely Kievan because they show time in relation to the Nikiforovs (Chris' report to the queen in ch. 4 and Romanov's journal in ch. 14) this system is as close to a universal calendar as this universe gets. The system began immediately after Katsuki Asami's death. So, Year 1131 is 1131 years after Asami died. The calendar is used singularly by mages and counts time in relation to the cycle of the moons. I originally had it going from new moon to new moon and then learned that there's a calendar already designed around moon cycles so I decided to use that instead. [Click here to see a chart of the 13 Moon Calendar](http://www.lawoftime.org/thirteenmoon/tutorial.html) 
**Yuuri's Charms:** These follow basic shape and color symbolism and adhere to some guidelines I found for people who practice magick in present-day. The charm he made for Viktor is a circle (protection, a shield) made out of iron (protection, strength), covered with thread of silver (protection, Lunar power, love) and finished with more thread in the color blue (peace, harmony, loyalty, security, protection). As mentioned when Yuuri made Viktor's charm, his use of iron is purely practical rather than symbolic, but it doesn't hurt that iron helps achieve his goal. The charms for Yurio and Seung-gil are built from a triangle (used by some occultists as a summoning symbol), wrapped with aluminum (travel, communication) and covered with thread in the color orange (communication, messages, travel). 

> 
> Chapter Song: _Between the Wars_ by Allman Brown.


	18. battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The armies collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to go up yesterday, but I posted on tumblr about how I was hella sleep-deprived and needed to do an edit after a full night of sleep and _holy shit_ was that a good idea. I am dying thinking about all the stuff I caught during my edits this morning, I made a good call. Anyways, here's the chapter that was originally (a little more than) half of the last chapter, which was originally (a little more than) half of the chapter before it. Cheers, may I stop outlining massive chapters that need to be split into thirds.
> 
>  [Click here to see the world maps.](https://lovingnikiforov.tumblr.com/ee)
> 
>  **Listen to the[Fic Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq) on Spotify.** This chapter: song #16  
>  *Note: the chapter song is at peak effectiveness if you start listening to it where it's linked in the chapter.

It was an eventuality that the easy march north the army had been granted would come to a stop. Considering how caught by surprise Kiev was by the army’s invasion, it was impressive how quickly the other small villages on the road to the capital were evacuated. Menelaus' troops had only gotten to let loose on one other village—this one much closer to their advance than the capital's messengers—before the campaign had become almost boring.

The notice from the advance riders of another army blocking them from going further was a welcome reprieve, and Menelaus immediately called for a halt as the sun began to dip below the horizon.

He rode with experienced campaigners among his command team, it was evident by how quickly tents were pitched and fires stoked. What was once an empty stretch of highway among the foothills is a sprawling military campsite within an hour, and as he strolls through the rows of canvas tents, he can't find so much as a piece of tack out of place.

Regardless which corner of the continent the army travels to, the camps are always laid out in the exact same manner, and Menelaus strides straight toward the middle of the camp to the command tent.

Already assembled are the twenty knights who make up the core of this particular campaign, their conversations die as he makes his way around the long table to stand at its head, glancing at the map sprawled on the table's surface.

"Scouting report?" he asks the room at large.

"The second advance group came back just five minutes prior," comes the response from halfway down the table. "It appears King Nikiforov marches with the full might of his army, or what could be mustered within the time he allotted. Around 800 cavalrymen leading 17 infantry regiments."

"Unlike the core of our army, Kiev's is made up of some knights, dozens of boys still in training, and volunteer fighters who spend most of their days as tradesmen. Their techniques will likely be rudimentary, at best," another knight speaks up from the other side of the table.

"If we send the full force of our troops in tomorrow's battle, our numerical advantage all but guarantees victory, and with Nikiforov's head on a spike, the rest of the Kievan resistance will be tedious cleanup," outlines a third from the end of the table.

_A foolhardy approach to the battle._

All heads turn to the opening of the tent as the mage seems to float into the meeting with seemingly no reproach from the guards posted outside to send away unwelcome intrusions. As ever, a black robe makes their body impossible to discern while a cloak covers their head and shadows their face.

The only inch of skin that is visible is on their hands, fingers interlaced before them as they walk past the knights with a single-minded purpose. Laces of what looks like black ink cover sickeningly pale skin, the black so thin and intricate that it almost looks like veins.

At Menelaus' right, his second-in-command steps into the mage's path. "This is a meeting of the high command, you have no place here."

_You should do better than to pick fights you cannot win._

Amusement is clear in the mage's response, slithering through Menelaus' skull in a way that makes him shudder slightly. The hood of the mage's cloak turns to just glance at the soldier and the knight jumps to the side with a curse as if something burned his feet. 

"Why you-"

"Enough!" Menelaus' voice cracks out, cutting off the beginning of a fight that he has no desire to witness. He forces himself to stare at the opening of the mage's hood and can't shake the feeling that—despite not being able to see them—cold and empty eyes are staring straight through his soul. "What basis do you have in your claim about our battle strategy? You are no fighter."

_You are no mage. However, there is one mingling in the enemy camp._

"All your bravado and you can't handle a single mage?" a knight from down the table sneers.

_The prince has been briefed on my knowledge of this particular mage. It is up to his judgment whether or not he would like to risk losing an entire army to the mage's might._

"The mage is that powerful?" Menelaus asks.

_He has the potential to be. It is dependent on his schooling, which is impossible to discern from a distance. By the time we've learned what he is capable of, it may be too late._

Menelaus considers the statement, glancing off into the distance. While Atreides has enough troops that the loss of this army would not be crippling, having their mythos as being undefeatable ruined by this tiny kingdom could be a mortal blow, it could even inspire revolts through the rest of the empire.

"What would you have me do?"

_Keep back your personal regiment, and remain at camp where I can suitably protect you from any magical attack. If the enemy mage is inadequately taught, your retainers will still destroy the Kievan army and win the glory among themselves will raise troop morale. If the enemy mage is as much of a threat as he could be, the empire will not lose its prince in this battle._

It's sound advice, which is all the more suspicious coming from someone as self-serving as the mage before him. Menelaus is under no illusion that the mage offers it out of any type of benevolence, but he cannot dismiss the information out of hand.

After a moment, he nods decisively, "Keep back twenty-five percent of our army, we will wait to make sure the enemy mage is not an undue threat."

 

* * *

 

Yuri’s hands are trembling. They shake as he pulls the straps of Viktor’s armor tight, as they straighten chain mail and search for any chinks in the armor.

The silence in the tent is stifling, heavy with the knowledge that there is no guarantee either of them will live to see the evening’s sunset. A stream of information is being relayed to Viktor by whatever soldier is on the other half of the tent, hidden by a canvas divider. There’s no need for Viktor to acknowledge anything said, no real need for him to focus on the reports—hourly check-ins by the various knight commanders—in their entirety unless something goes horribly wrong.

A clatter of metal pulls Viktor from his thoughts, and he glances over to see Yuri kneeling on the ground, picking up the weapons he dropped. It’s a miracle the boy can move so much as a single broadsword with how he’s trembling from head-to-toe.

Crossing the small space, Viktor kneels down to help, “I’m sorry, Yuri.”

His squire doesn’t look up, “For what? I’m the one who dropped everything.”

Reaching out, Viktor lays his hand on top of one of Yuri’s holding it steady while he pulls the sword from the boy’s grip, “This shouldn’t be your first battle. I should have taken you to the border for a few skirmishes before we got to this point.”

Yuri scowls, yanking his hand away, “I’m fine.”

“Anyone who isn’t nervous before a battle is a fool,” Viktor says, “it’s different from practice fights or duels or skirmishes. An actual battle is a sea of madness and you have to kill to stay afloat. It’s okay to be scared.”

“You’re not scared.”

A wry smile curls onto Viktor’s lips, “Yura, I’m terrified.”

Eyes wide, Yuri finally meets Viktor’s gaze. His face is completely pale, it looks like he barely slept at all the previous night, he looks every bit like a fifteen-year-old boy getting ready for a war, and Viktor wishes he could leave Yuri behind in camp. Viktor wishes he could leave all the squires behind at camp, that there was no need to send children onto the field to protect the kingdom.

There’s a lot of choices he wishes he could make lately, but some things are out of his hands.

Getting back on his feet, Viktor clips on his sword belt, “Go finish getting your gear handled. I can take care of the rest.”

Yuri nods curtly and makes his way out the tent, passing Christophe on his way out. The guard captain pauses to watch Yuri leave before he quirks an eyebrow at Viktor, “ _Terrified,_ are we? Do you want me to hold your hand before the charge?”

Rolling his eyes, Viktor says, “Only if you let me carry your handkerchief next to my heart as a good luck charm.”

With a dramatic flourish, the other man whips out a handkerchief and offers it with a bow, “Darling, I thought you’d never ask.”

Viktor blinks at the dangling piece of fabric, and bursts into laughter. Christophe’s eyes twinkle as he straightens and pockets the handkerchief once more, an impish smile playing on his face. He meanders further into the tent and pats Viktor on the shoulder, “You’ve looked much too serious this whole trip south.”

“Soldiers generally want their commander to be taking this seriously,” Viktor points out.

“Ah, you Kievans are so uptight all the time. It’s a wonder you manage to have any fun at all,” Christophe sighs, “my people believe that if the commander laughs before a battle it’s a good omen.” His smile turns sharp, “and to this date, they put up the fiercest fight against those conquering bastards.”

There’s a savage pride in Christophe’s words and, not for the first time, Viktor’s glad he’s never been on the wrong end of his friend’s sword. Turning to the nearby bench, Viktor scans the other weapons laid out for his use, “What’s the news from the front lines?”

“It looks like the prince’s personal division is sitting this one out, along with a handful of other regiments. They’re only sending out three-quarters of their force.”

“Any sign of the mage?”

Christophe shakes his head. “It’s hard to say, but I’d assume the mage would stay back with the prince.”

Viktor frowns and strides to the tent division, popping his head through to the other half and catching the eye of a waiting runner, “Have Katsuki Yuuri report here immediately.”

“Sire!” The messenger runs off.

There’s a sigh from behind him, “Does it matter what Yuuri says?”

“If he can tell us whether or not we’ll be facing magic, that’s important.”

“And if we are? What will he do? You and the council relegated him to playing nurse here at camp.”

Viktor turns back to face Christophe, “You know it’s the best I could do: there isn’t any way for us to prove that he is who he says he is. Besides, Yuuri’s a skilled healer, we could do worse than having him take care of the wounded.”

With a shrug, Christophe counters, “It’s wasteful allocation of resources.”

“We don’t even know if he’s any good with battle magic.”

Someone clears their throat on the other side of the divider and says, “Your Majesty, a message from Katsuki.”

Raising an eyebrow, Viktor pushes the divider aside and accepts the folded paper from the runner with a nod. Turning as he unfolds the paper, Viktor quickly scans the writing before he passes it to Christophe. His friend only reads for a moment before he smirks. “He’s definitely not the bowing and scraping type.”

Snorting, Viktor takes the note back and scans it again, “That’s one way to put it.”

Yuuri’s missive is short and straight to the point: _Preparing for battle: cannot step away unless it is urgent. The mage feels dormant, it’s doubtful they will participate in the first attack._

“He’d be the perfect balance for you,” Christophe muses, looking thoughtfully at a point over Viktor’s shoulder.

Freezing in his movements, Viktor blinks, trying to ignore the heat rising to his cheeks. “What do you mean?”

“As the Royal Mage,” comes the clarification, “he wouldn’t let you push him around but he’s also a diligent worker.” Green eyes flick back to Viktor, and Christophe raises an eyebrow, “what did you think I meant, Viktor?”

Resolutely ignoring the teasing lilt in Christophe’s voice, Viktor turns and picks up his shield and a second sword: slinging the shield over his back as he says, “Nothing, Chris. I was just confused.”

“ _Right,_ ” disbelief colors the single word, “not to doubt your word, my friend, it just seems like-”

“Chris, please shut up,” Viktor says as he crosses toward the other side of the tent.

Christophe’s laughter rings out behind him. Rolling his eyes, Viktor steps out into the chill of the early morning, pausing to take in the bustle of the camp around them. Messengers and pages run from tent to tent as the jingle of armor is present all around him. Setting off in the direction of the command tent, Viktor nods in acknowledgment of those who greet him, keeping a serene smile on his face as he listens to soldiers joke and tease each other much like he and Christophe did.

It’s good that camp morale is high: the confidence of the soldiers is nearly as important as the strength of numbers. Not for the first time since setting out south, Viktor thinks they may actually be able to pull this off.

As he steps into the command tent, he’s met with Yakov and Lilia bickering, and his smile grows slightly. “What are we arguing about today?”

They both glance over at him and Yakov answers first, “She wants to send another five squads of archers around the trail for the ambush. We don’t have enough time for them to rendezvous with the riders who left last night.”

“Given that the enemy is not attacking at full strength, the shock of the ambush might be enough to make the soldiers break ranks if we send reinforcements,” Lilia counters.

Viktor glances at the table, studying the map and small figures that represent the two armies’ locations. “Fifty extra archers aren’t going to put much of a dent on the enemy’s numbers.”

“It’s about the perception. Archers can fell more fighters quicker, and precede the charge from the rear. If they set out now, they can make it in time.”

He considers the two arguments for a moment before shaking his head, “The remaining squads are made up of too many reserve forces: they aren’t trained well enough to ride out hard now without being fatigued before the battle begins.” Changing the subject before they can continue to bicker, Viktor adds, “Yuuri reports that he sees no sign of the mage preparing to attack.”

“Small mercies,” Lilia replies.

Yakov nods thoughtfully, “How accurate is his judgment of such matters?”

“More accurate than yours or mine,” Viktor says. “What are the movements from the front lines?”

“Quiet,” Yakov answers. “It looks like Menelaus is waiting for you to make the first move.”

“No demand for surrender?”

Both shake their heads, and Viktor frowns, “That’s unusual.”

Lilia’s fingers drum against her hips, nails tapping against scrupulously polished armor. “Considering the lack of enemy movements and the fact that the mage isn’t moving, it seems very much like Prince Menelaus wants to get your measure first. To some degree, it makes sense: as a new monarch he has no way of knowing how you’ll handle this battle.”

A sigh leaves Viktor’s lips and his voice drops to a murmur so no one passing by the tent can hear him say, “They outnumber us so significantly that he has no need to know how I will handle matters.”

“Take blessings as they appear,” she replies.

With a nod, Viktor considers the map before them, pushing his misgivings about the lack of reaction from the enemy army to the back of his mind so he can lead. “How are the overnight reports?”

 

* * *

 

Setting down a bundle of rags, Yuuri lets out a soft sigh of relief. The medical tent is finally ready, at least as ready as they can be. Around him, the various nurses and midwives who volunteered to ride South with the army are still straightening stations and folding linens, but he senses that it is mostly them trying to keep busy until they're actually needed.

It’s almost strange to be here after over a week of devoting himself to learn how to hurt people. He feels almost out of place, standing in the middle of a healing tent as his magic crackles under his skin: as if it is just as aware that he isn’t in the right mindset to be here. Circling his thumb is the same ring he took from its sealed place on the back shelf of his shop, that he used to fight off bandits on the journey North with Seung-gil. Unlike in the past, the killing intent in the amplifier doesn’t irritate his skin, and he rubs at the black stone set into the ring absentmindedly. Between its ability to convert his magic into raw malice and the newfound magical theory swirling in his head, Yuuri is almost afraid of what he might be capable of if he truly lets go of all his reservations.

"Master Katsuki?" Yuuri turns to look at the speaker, a young woman about seventeen holding out a thermos, "we thought you might want something to eat before it gets started."

He accepts the thermos with a murmured word of thanks and takes a sip of the soup. The woman doesn't leave, merely shifts from foot to foot as if wanting to say something but afraid of being reprimanded.

"Is everything alright?" he asks after waiting a few moments more.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she drops his gaze, "We're not going to be able to save all the soldiers they bring here. Are we?"

Yuuri puts the thermos down, "No, we won't."

"In my village, all I do is treat colds and coughs. I'm not a healer like some of the others, what if it's my fault that they die?"

"What's your name?"

She glances up at him, seemingly surprised, "Tasha."

"People are going to die in this tent today, it's not possible to prevent that no matter if you have magic or if you don't," Yuuri says, voice solemn, "but we're not the ones killing them, no matter how you feel, their deaths are not on your hands. We're here to save each and every life that we can. Even if you save one person, that's one more that would not have survived if you weren't here, Tasha. Do you understand?"

Slowly she nods, "I think so."

Passing back the thermos, Yuuri gives her smile. "You'll do great, I can tell."

When she accepts the thermos, her hands are trembling slightly, but there's a look of determination in her eyes that validates Yuuri's statement. Tasha dips a slight curtsey and makes her way over to the side of the tent were those with minor injuries will be taken for people of her skill set to handle. After watching her go, Yuuri flicks his gaze to study the rest of those present.

Over the ride South, he's gotten a measure of the abilities at his disposal, has gotten a feel for the courage it took each of them to volunteer for this position. At times he felt ill-suited to be placed in charge, but Yuuri doesn't want to fail them.

In the distance, he hears the sounds of war horns, and a shiver runs down his spine at the realization that the battle is beginning.

Letting his eyes flutter shut, Yuuri spares a moment to wish safety to his friends. In his mind's eye, he pictures Seung-gil mixed in with the ambush team several dozen kilometers away, bow and arrow at the ready; Yuri, still a teenager but armed and mounted for battle; Christophe, leading a squad of soldiers whose jobs it is to lay down their lives to protect the monarch. He pictures Viktor, the one fighter every member of the Atreides army will want to kill, commanding the attack from among the ranks.

"Stay safe, everyone," he murmurs, feeling wind curl against his cheek and carry the wish out of the tent and toward the battlefield.

Opening his eyes, Yuuri glances to the entrance of the tent, pulling off his glasses as he stares: trying to catch a whisper of the Great Mage. There's no hint of them, and as much as Yuuri wishes that it would help him relax, he can't help but feel as if this fight isn't going to be anything less than an uphill battle for Kiev, and he’s afraid the hill will be too steep for them to overcome.

 

* * *

 

It's eerily quiet near the front lines. Considering that there are hundreds of soldiers spread out around and behind Yuri, that there's even more across the kilometers that separate him from the mustered enemy army, one would think it would be a cacophony of noise.

Instead, the earth seems still.

He doesn't think he's seen an animal cross the empty territory between the two armies since taking up his station almost an hour ago.

The anticipation is going to kill him.

As if sensing his impatience, his horse shifts from foot to foot, and Yuri absently bends down to pat his neck gently. He isn't as gentle when he straightens and directs a glare at Christophe. "How much longer do we have to wait?"

Christophe glances down at him, cocking an eyebrow. "We can't very well attack while the messengers are negotiating a possible truce."

With a scoff, Yuri replies, "It's just for show. No one really thinks that meeting is going to do anything." He waves a dismissive hand toward where four fighters, two from each army bearing large white flags, had been meeting in the neutral space between armies for nearly twenty minutes.

"A white flag is a white flag, Yuri," Christophe says, speaking slowly as if explaining the concept to a child, a grin on his face that Yuri itches to slap off. "If we violate truce it will ruin the king's credibility in the event that we need to negotiate later."

"We won't have to worry about that if we win."

"That's true," Christophe shrugs, but he doesn't provide the declaration of confidence that Yuri had been fishing for. The older man straightens in his saddle. "Looks like things might be getting started."

Glancing over at the truce meeting, Yuri sees the Kievan riders turning and making their way back toward the army. They ride at a full gallop, racing back to the frontline and directly toward Viktor's standard, just meters from where Yuri sits. The standard is purposefully a short ride from Viktor's actual location (five steps to Yuri's right) so it's not too simple for the enemy to find him. Only after the line of advance riders that will make up the initial charge close behind the negotiators do the two soldiers wheel their horses toward them.

One of Viktor's guards steps into the rider's paths, forcing them to slow down and come to a halt just within speaking distance. It's Christophe who shifts so he's facing the pair and asks, "Your report?"

"The Atreides army refuses to stop their advance," Comes the entirely predictable reply. "They demanded we lay down our arms now and, in full display of his merciful ways, Prince Menelaus will accept Kiev as a subjugate citizen of the Atreides Empire with our king as the territory's governor."

Yuri scowls, and glances over at Viktor. As it was often these days, the old man’s face is completely unreadable.

"And your response?" Christophe prods.

"Saving His Majesty's presence," the other soldier pipes up, "we told them to stuff their prince's 'merciful ways' up their asses."

A snort leaves Yuri and he immediately claps a hand over his mouth as a few guards glance questioningly in his direction. He thinks he can be excused for the less than chivalrous response considering that Christophe is fighting back laughter of his own and even Viktor's 'ice king' persona is being challenged if the smile he's trying to fight back is any indication.

Christophe turns his horse to face Viktor, "Your orders?"

"Give the command to prepare for the charge."

"Sire!" the response is echoed around Yuri, and within seconds the entire mood of the army becomes electric.

Riders split away from the small group that makes up Viktor's central command, racing down the lines of regiments to relay the orders. Once the battle commences, orders will be immediately sounded via the horns carried by a select few soldiers throughout the command area, but Yuri assumes Viktor doesn't want to give away their decision to the enemy: as if their decision will come as a surprise to them at all.

The white flags are furled and tucked away, the two negotiators salute and go their own ways to their stations.

Viktor scans the area, taking in the increasing amount of activity before his eyes fall on Yuri's, and he jerks his head backward in a silent order. Urging his horse into movement, Yuri moves away from the wall of guards that circle them until he's stopping next to the new king.

"I know I've been more king than knight-master these last few weeks, but I think it's my duty to give you last-minute battle advice."

Rolling his eyes, Yuri says, "What good is last-minute battle advice?"

With a wry grin, Viktor shrugs. "Yakov gave me great advice before my first border skirmish."

At the mention of his name, the old knight glances up from adjusting his armor to squint at Viktor. "Advice that you actually listened to?"

"You told me not to get myself killed," Viktor replies, grin spreading, "go figure the one time you gave me advice I actively wanted to follow it was also the hardest advice to follow through on."

There's a grunt of acknowledgment from Yakov before he goes back to preparing for the charge, and Viktor turns his attention back to Yuri. "To answer your question, I'm not sure it'll do you any good. The one thing we never learn about a battle until we're in the fray of it is that it's almost impossible to keep your wits about you: once the armies crash, you're running almost entirely on adrenaline and instinct. But, at least entertain me."

Yuri shrugs, wishing he could maintain the same amount of bravado that swept over him while waiting for the negotiators to finish talking. "Fine."

"You're a great duelist," Viktor begins, "if you were older I might consider nominating you as my champion." The unexpected praise—extremely high praise, coming from Viktor—makes Yuri blink in surprise, but Viktor isn't finished. "But this isn't a one-on-one fight, don't treat it like one. All the fancy sword tricks in the world aren't going to do you shit: just find the biggest opening, thrust until they're dead, and move onto the next fighter. If you spend too much energy trying to duel a single enemy, another one will gut you from behind. Understand?"

He wants to vomit the meager breakfast he forced himself to swallow, but Yuri forces his mouth to move, for his voice to work. "Yeah, whatever, just don't get yourself killed."

Viktor chuckles, "I think my advice is a lot better than that old line." He glances up, "looks like it's time for the first charge to go. Stay nearby, even if the line breaks and you can't find the others, keep an eye on the standard."

"It was one piece of advice, old man. Let's get a move on," Yuri snaps, turning his horse out toward the charging point and grabbing for his cuirass.

As he pulls it on, a rider comes to a halt just outside the ring of guards. "The order has been relayed, Your Majesty, all forces are prepared."

Yuri curls a hand over the hilt of his sword. Beside him, there's no hesitation in Viktor's voice as he says, "Then there's no point in putting it off any longer."

Drawing his sword, Yuri spares a second to glance down at his hands. His hold on his blade is steady, unnervingly so, as if his body has detached itself from his growing panic.

Around his free hand, he can just see the glint of metal laced with orange: the charm Yuuri had shoved in his hand just as they reached their final campsite is wrapped around Yuri's wrist. When it was handed to him Yuri had made it clear he had no intention of using whatever magic was imbued in the metal that would make it a distress symbol for the healer back at camp—with no fighting training at all, Yuri highly doubts the healer will be able to do much to help him once the battle starts. But much as the presence of Yuuri's charm around Viktor's neck had been reassuring during Viktor's duel, the sight of this charm—crafted especially for him—helps soothe some of Yuri's nerves.

He can faintly hear the sound of Viktor drawing his own blade from his sheath, and from the corner of his eye, Yuri can see the monarch raise his sword over his head as he rises in his stirrups.

"Let them regret the day they set foot on our soil!" Viktor calls, voice carrying easily to the nearby soldiers. "For Kiev! Charge!"

The horns take up his command, their notes rising in the air and reaching every corner of the army. A resounding roar is the response: every soldier contributing to the battle cry as the frontline surges forward in a charge of horses. Despite not being in the first charge, Yuri feels his nerves spike at the knowledge that over a dozen of his training mates are scattered through the charge; he clenches his jaw as he tries not to imagine how many of them won't be coming back.

Across the space between the armies, another series of horn notes sound, and the enemy army charges forward as well. Yuri's grip on his sword tightens as the two lines race toward each other until they collide.

Lowering back into his saddle, Viktor glances over at Yakov, "What do you think?"

"I think they're throwing it all into the charge, I doubt there are any fancy tricks," Yakov replies.

Viktor nods, and kicks his horse into a walk, "Let's join them, then."

Compared to the fiery call to charge, the order that has Yuri moving toward the battlefield, has him kicking his horse into action until they're thundering down the slight slope at a gallop, is mundane. A calm statement that could have just as easily been Viktor suggesting he and Yuri work on drills with other squires has Yuri racing toward a mass of bodies full of friend and foe that look completely indistinguishable.

His heart thunders in his chest, almost louder than the crescendo of hooves striking the earth as the second line of fighters charge at Viktor's word. In the back of his head, his knight-master's last-minute advice plays on repeat, and Yuri mumbles it to himself under his breath. "This isn't a duel. Find the biggest opening and thrust until they're dead."

They level out off of the slope and onto flat land and Yuri can start to make out bodies dropping from saddles.

He wants to turn the other way and run as far away from the fighting as he can.

Somewhere to his left, he hears Christophe's voice raise in a yipping battle cry, two swords drawn at the guard's side. Viktor laughs in response and urges his horse on forward.

Yuri doesn't understand how either is able to make a sound: his heart is lodged in his throat.

The back lines of the earlier charge dive to the side as they bear down, creating a small tunnel for the second charge to ride through two horses abreast. Yuri falls into place behind Viktor, eye wide as he gallops past newly made corpses that can't be more than a few seconds old.

He takes a rattling breath in, and then the riders in front of him break off in opposite directions. Yuri wheels to the left, following the white plume of Viktor’s stallion, and glances to his right to catch his first close-up of the enemy fighters.

Objectively, he knew they were outnumbered, but the sheer size of the enemy army has a strangled gasp leaving his lips.

It's the last coherent thought he has before he's brought to a rearing halt by an enemy soldier on horseback and an ax hurtling at his neck. Yuri ducks, steering his horse with his knees as he switches hands with his blade to thrust in under the soldier's overextended arm and jab his sword straight through the unprotected hollow of his opponent's throat.

The man drops from his saddle, and Yuri swears at the tug of weight on his blade, just barely managing to yank his sword from the body before he's unseated. Bile rises in Yuri's throat and he forces it back down, whirling his horse to search for the rest of his group.

Viktor's silver hair is covered by a helmet of his own (as much a safety precaution as it is to prevent the enemy from spotting him too easily) but Yuri picks him out within seconds and pushes his horse in the correct direction.

It's slow going as Yuri blocks spears meant to maim his horse and gets bogged down by mounted knight after knight, all with dead eyes and blows so intense that Yuri can feel the killing intent behind them.

Somewhere in the distance he hears the Kievan horns blow again, signaling the third charge, and he prays they get further into the dense mass of the enemy than the second charge did as he drags his sword against another fighter's throat, flinching as the rider slumps forward almost into Yuri's saddle and blood splatters on his face.

All he can register are screams. People dying left and right in a field of chaos so difficult to parse out that Yuri only knows who his enemy is if they attack him.

Just as Viktor said, it's nothing like a duel, but Yuri wishes someone had told him that a real battle was as close to hell as a living human could get.

As he reaches the outer ring of Viktor's guards, one recognizes him and pushes his horse aside just enough for Yuri to slip through into a small haven in the battlefield. Viktor is having a rapid conversation with a knight Yuri vaguely recognizes as being a part of the first charge.

Before he can move close enough to hear them over the screams, a hand claps his back, making him jump and his sword hand comes up on instinct.

Another sword blocks his and Yuri recognizes Christophe's laugh. The guard captain looks like he was going on an exercise ride, the only blood on his person dripping down from the blades of both his swords.

"Relax, young Plisetsky," Christophe says, teeth twinkling in a grin, "I just wanted to congratulate you on not dying during your first charge. Not everyone can boast of that accomplishment."

Yuri glares at him, "This isn't fucking funny, Chris."

A single eyebrow quirks, disappearing behind the rim of the knight's helmet, "If you don't lighten up, you'll never be able to live with yourself after this is over."

The comment takes Yuri aback, and his glare melts off his face. Yuri's known since the moment the charge was called that if he lives through this (and even though all he wants to do is survive this battle he's quickly come to realize that it's a big if) he'll have nightmares about it for days. Only Christophe's words make it abundantly clear that he'll never be able to push away the memory of the men he's killed, and just thinking back to the half-dozen he fought just to get reunited with Viktor's squad makes him feel disgusting.

Christophe seems to read his thoughts on his face, "Save it for after the battle. We've still got work to do."

At that moment, Viktor pulls away from his conversation to call to Christophe, "We're riding east!"

A piercing series of whistles leaves Christophe's lips and the ring of guards shrinks in on itself to form a condensed column, with Viktor at its head and one fighter on either side. Yuri finds himself getting pushed to ride just behind Viktor as the king kicks his horse into a trot, sword flashing to clear a path for the group of riders.

It's almost miraculous how much faster they make progress through the throng than Yuri did on his own. The charge never slows, the column of riders just swinging at anyone who comes in their way and continuing in line without falter. For the first time, Yuri spares a fleeting thought to how Christophe is clearly guard captain because of his skills as a leader, not because of his friendship with Viktor, because the rank of guards moves together as if born to do so.

In the midst of the battle, Yuri has no sense of direction, so when Viktor reigns in and another combination of whistles has the guards closing rank around the king, he merely pulls to a halt in a daze.

Viktor is frowning at something in the distance (to Yuri it just looks like more fighting) and he says, "The ambush didn't do much to bite into the enemy army."

"Given how many fighters they have, it's not too surprising," Christophe sighs, squinting in the same direction.

"What do you think? Honestly?"

There's a pause, and then Christophe says, "I think the best we have is a stalemate, but that would cost us nearly half our fighters."

Viktor's frown deepens. "You think I should call for a retreat?"

"I don't know. A retreat to the camp is just inviting Menelaus to send the rest of his fighters to slaughter us, and we can't ride back to the palace without abandoning the rest of the army. There are no good options here, Viktor."

"I had hoped-" Viktor cuts off abruptly as a concentrated charge of a squad of knights breaks through the guard ring, splitting them in half.

Yuri shouts as he's separated from the others, and brings his sword up just in time to block a blow meant to go straight through his eye. Urging his horse back, Yuri ducks below another strike and steels himself. This fighter is much more skilled than any of the ones he's handled thus far.

As much as Viktor's warning has urged Yuri to end confrontations quickly, he can't find an opening with this new foe. Sweat drips down his forehead as he does all he can do not to let the knight land a blow, given that the other is near twice his size, even a strike to an armored part of Yuri's body could be crippling due to broken bone.

Even though every instinct in Yuri's body is shouting at him to stay as close to where the group had been, he finds himself continuing to urge his horse back, hoping to find some breathing room so he can begin an attack of his own.

Suddenly, he feels the earth give way underneath him: his horse stumbling over a corpse and falling to the ground. Yuri tugs his boots from his stirrups in just enough time to avoid being crushed by the animal as his horse rolls onto his back with the fall. There’s no time to check and see if his horse is okay as Yuri darts to the side to dodge yet another attack from the knight.

Fighting a mounted opponent on foot is a death wish, and Yuri can feel himself growing desperate as the knight bears down on him with a savage grin: sensing victory near.

Then, the knight surges forward in his saddle, a sword piercing from the back of his leather armor and out the front before vanishing. As the knight falls from his saddle, he reveals a familiar face—and Yuri has never been so happy to see the older squire that circles around the enemy's horse to offer him a hand.

"Where's your horse?" Otabek shouts over the din.

Taking the outstretched hand, Yuri lets his friend pull him into the saddle. Once settled in behind Otabek, he glances around the immediate area but it’s too chaotic for him to do a reasonable search. "I don't know, it fell. Where's your squad?"

A shake of the head and the stiff set of Otabek's back is all Yuri needs to see to know the answer. Otabek turns his horse slightly, squinting, "I was riding to report to the king when I saw you. Why aren't you with them?"

Gutting an infantry soldier who tries to topple the horse, Yuri says, "The guard ring got broken, I don't know what happened to the others. Just find the standard."

The horse continues turning until Yuri catches a flash of the light blue flag and points. "There!"

"Hold on tight."

Yuri only gets the half-second warning before Otabek is kicking his horse into a run. Biting back a yelp, Yuri tightens the arm around the older squire's waist and tries to make himself as small as possible so he doesn't mess up the balance of either the horse or its rider. Otabek rides through the fray much like Viktor did—without any hesitation as he tramples people underfoot.

They're mere meters away from the standard when it falls, and Yuri's heart falls with it.

"Go faster!" he shouts in Otabek's ear.

Otabek doesn't reply, but he kicks his horse into a gallop and they're flying across the battlefield toward where they last saw the standard.

A part appears in the sea of fighters and Yuri feels his stomach drop at the sight of Viktor, unmounted from his horse, helm gone, fending off a pair of foot soldiers. In the distance, he catches sight of Christophe, fighting his way toward Viktor, but Yuri and Otabek are closer.

"Ride past them!" Yuri shouts, loosening his grip and leaning back.

Otabek glances at him, clearly aware of what Yuri plans to do, but he doesn't argue. Instead, they change course, and as they come up on the fight, Yuri launches himself from the saddle, rolls to soften his landing, and bounces to his feet to slash at the nearest soldier.

The man swears and pivots to face Yuri just a second too late, Yuri's sword cutting across his throat with a flick of the wrist that makes the soldier drop. In the same second, Viktor guts the other soldier and shoots a grateful smile at Yuri.

"Thanks for the help. I'll yell at you for being an idiot later."

Yuri rolls his eyes, "If there is a later."

Viktor reaches out, grabbing at Yuri's arm in a spurt of speed and tugging him forward. Stumbling, Yuri barely manages not to fall into the revolting mess of blood and _gods know what else_ on the ground. Whirling to yell at Viktor, Yuri finds him locking swords with another fighter.

Sparing a quick look around, Yuri sees another group of foot soldiers running toward them. Without his helmet, Viktor is the biggest target in sight and Yuri's sense of hopeless returns in a surge.

Despite what he told himself earlier, he curls his hand down to grasp the dangling charm at his wrist and squeezes it tight. He has no idea how the spell is supposed to work, has no idea what it means if it does work, but for just a second he lets himself hope that Yuuri can sense how desperate the entire army is, despite not being sure what the hell a single mage can do to help him and Viktor in particular now that they're so far into the middle of the battlefield.

To his left, Christophe is getting closer, a handful of royal guards making the push with him, but they're still too far away.

Dropping his grip on the charm, Yuri moves forward just as Viktor stabs his current opponent and braces himself for the next wave of fighters.

Ever since he first watched Viktor fight—as a first-year page attending a mock duel—Yuri dreamed of being able to fight on par with him. He never imagined his first time truly fighting side-by-side with the master swordsman would be like this, as a desperate last stand with their lives on the line.

His own death is almost tangible, but before it can freeze him in place, Viktor steps up to meet their attackers, movements just as fluid and graceful as they had been in that mock duel five years ago. The only difference is that now Yuri has a sword of his own too, and he swings it at a different fighter, pulling their attention away from the king.

If this is how he has to die, Yuri thinks that fighting shoulder to shoulder with Viktor isn't the worse way to go.

Just as the thought flickers through his head, he hears a noise that rattles through his bones more than it echoes in his ears and makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end before a rush of wind almost knocks him to the ground. Behind the wind comes a searing heat, and Yuri hops to one side with a curse ready to shout before the words catch in his throat as he realizes the soldier he'd been fighting is gone.

For the first time since the declaration of war had been made two weeks prior, [Yuri feels a wave of hope crashing over him.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZrddJPGp1I)

“About damn time, storyteller,” he mutters, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Yuuri somehow heard him.

 

* * *

 

Screams of agony ring through Viktor's ears and send shivers down his spine. Before him, what had once been an innumerable army of enemies now has a wide gap cut down the middle, bodies strewn where they had been charging forward like the bedroom of a child. On either side of the wreckage, Viktor can see soldiers turning to run while others stare at their countrymen in bewilderment. A distant part of his brain translates commanders’ orders as the enemy tries to regain control, but fear is tangible on the battlefield.

Viktor tears his attention from the devastation long enough to stab the opposing soldier that also came to a standstill, barely waiting to see if the man falls before he whirls to face in the direction where the blast originated.

Katsuki Yuuri strides through the ranks of Kievan soldiers, seemingly oblivious to how Viktor's men scramble to move out of his way, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the enemy forces. His black cloak whips frantically around his form, tossed by a tunnel of wind that seems to swirl around Yuuri like a moving shield, masking the shape of Yuuri's body until it’s almost indistinguishable. Yuuri's hair is slicked back, much like it was when Viktor first saw him, but that's the only similarity between the shy storyteller and the Great Mage now drawing level to him.

He hears uneasy calls from his guards (having used the confusion to get within speaking distance of where he stands) and Viktor holds up a hand to still them, tearing his gaze away from Yuuri just long enough to make sure none of his men will act out. It’s easy to understand their nerves—Yuuri is literally radiating power—but he trusts that Yuuri would never harm the people of Kiev.

"I recommend pulling all of your fighters so they stand behind me," Yuuri says without preamble as he meets Viktor's gaze.

Without his glasses, Yuuri's warm brown eyes glint with sparks of gold. There's a sharpness in them that feels foreboding, and Viktor glances over at the enemy army. It's beginning to recover, reforming into a tenable mass, but he can still see hundreds of corpses: soldiers killed in an instant by a single man.

Having this might available to him would help turn the tide of the battle, perhaps even create a resounding victory for Kiev, make it so that no more of his people have to die here. A better king would have given the order immediately, but Viktor hesitates.

"Yuuri, you don't have to-"

"Draw them back." Yuuri’s tone brokers no room for an argument. He doesn't wait for Viktor to reply as he sets off walking toward the front lines.

Viktor's hand clenches around the hilt of his sword as he watches Yuuri go, but he raises his voice so his retainers can hear, "Give the order to fall back to our standard."

"Sire!" Immediately movement bursts out around him and horns are sounding through the battlefield.

One of his guards rides level, hands grasping the reins of Viktor’s stallion, and he gives a nod of appreciation before swinging into the saddle and patting his horse on the neck without taking his gaze away from the shift in the battlefield. Kievan soldiers fall back on command, a sea of armor and steel running opposite of a single black cloud until Yuuri is standing alone, well past the edge of the frontlines: a pillar in between two armies.

"Are you really going to let him do this?" Yuri's snarl is tinged with concern, and at another time it might have pulled a smile on Viktor's face.

Now, he pushes his chin up slightly, unable to show weakness in the face of Yuuri's strength. "If it will win the battle, we'll do whatever is necessary. It's our duty." The words flow from his lips with ease, but Viktor can taste the dishonesty in every syllable. It is only the glimpses of Yuuri's magic, the sensation that he has only ever seen the bare minimum of what Yuuri is capable of, that keeps Viktor from calling out a charge to prevent Yuuri from whatever he's trying to do.

The wind dies.

Without the movement of his cloak, Yuuri looks incredibly small, fragile, human. But the invisible press of the magnitude of his ability still bears down on the Kievan army, reminding Viktor that despite his assumptions on their first meeting, Yuuri is nothing quite so ordinary as Viktor himself is.

Across the field, he can hear the lighter timbre of the horns of the enemy army and a roar comes up from their troops as they rush forward in a charge.

Yuuri loftily raises one hand and stretches it over the field in front of him. His head tilts to the side slightly and Viktor can see his lips moving (uttering a spell or saying a prayer, Viktor isn't sure which).

The frontline of the Atreides cavalry raise their bows, and Viktor's heart stops when he realizes every single one is pointed straight at Yuuri. He goes to urge his horse forward and is brought to a halt by a hand gripping his reins tightly. Viktor tears his gaze away from the scene ahead just long enough to register Christophe's tight jaw and the slight shake of his head.

When he looks back at Yuuri, arrows are flying in his direction.

Then, the world explodes.

A noise like a thunderclap echoes through the clearing so loudly that Viktor wants to bring his hands to cover his ears and run for the hills. The dust at Yuuri’s feet flies up as the wind returns with force, blowing the dust in all directions until Viktor can hardly see a meter in front of him.

The roar of the enemy charge abruptly cuts off.

With it, the wind dies once again.

When Viktor can see the battlefield, he feels his face drain of all color. Beside him, his squire is letting loose a string of swears so filthy that it could make a sailor blush. Behind him, his army is completely still.

Katsuki Yuuri lowers his hand to his side, fingertips blackened as if covered with soot or burned to a crisp.

He had wiped out the enemy in a single blow.

The iron grip on his reins has gone slack and Viktor takes off through his soldiers without hesitation. When he's within speaking distance, he dismounts from his horse, ignoring the sound of his guard chasing after him.

"Majesty! Please stay back!"

Viktor waves a dismissive hand at whatever guard calls for him and takes a ginger step forward, "Yuuri?"

"Was magic all you hoped it would be, Your Majesty?" The formality stings more than it should, particularly since it represents a distance between them that Viktor has been more than guilty of fostering. The form of address, his title rather than his name, is exactly what Viktor never wanted to hear from Yuuri of all people.

He takes another step forward, trying not to wince when he catches a better glimpse of the bodies before them. Faces are burned half off, in other places soldiers are missing their limbs as if torn apart by a beast. The stench of blood and death wafts toward him and Viktor swallows a lump in his throat.

"Yuuri, please, look at me."

Above them, he can hear the eerie calls of vultures beginning to circle the battlefield. They fill the silence between the two men until Yuuri, slowly, turns his back on the gore so he can meet Viktor's gaze.

His eyes are liquid gold.

The color seems to flow around his pupils like a river, making him look otherworldly and untouchable, but Viktor reaches a hand out for him anyways, "You might have just saved all of our lives. Are you-"

Viktor watches Yuuri fall in slow motion, and suddenly he's back in a small forest clearing with no knowledge that the man before him has the power to burn his kingdom to the ground. He darts forward and catches Yuuri, swinging the mage into his arms just as gold eyes slide shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this very last scene was the very first scene I wrote for this fic. 
> 
> Chapter Song: _Meet Me on the Battlefield_ by Svrcina.


	19. repayment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle's aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Holy smokes_ the response to the last chapter was overwhelming! Thank you so much and thank you for continuing to read this story! You may have noticed that I updated the final chapter count from ? to 25. In terms of my outline, this story basically has four arcs, with us currently being near the end of the third one. So...I'm tentatively confident on this final chapter count but there is a chance it will increase by one or two chapters.
> 
>  
> 
> [**Fic Playlist** || listen on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq)  
> 
> 
> * Chapter 19 = Song 17  
> 

No one has said a word in the command tent for several long minutes.

From their vantage point on a small slope, they can see the scattered remains of thousands of empire soldiers as birds begin to swoop down on them. Nearly fifteen hundred highly-skilled knights and almost a hundred times as many infantry soldiers destroyed in an instant.

It’s a massive blow to the formerly undefeated prince, and fury rolls off of Menelaus in waves. His hands are clenched at his sides, shaking slightly, and she wonders if the prince is stupid enough to order the rest of their troops down to the battlefield in an attempt to somehow wring a victory out of the confrontation.

The blinding gold light that had descended into the chaos of the battle was snuffed within minutes. While its disappearance could have been the mage’s death, it’s more likely that the Katsuki boy collapsed almost immediately after the attack, his body unprepared for the sheer force of power he could push out at will.

Even from the safe distance of the command tent, Kiyomi had felt the boy’s spell. The initial tunnel of flame preceded by an identifying spell to make sure none of his cohorts were caught up in the attack was masterful, for all that it was a foolish waste of his energy. For her purposes, it was an indication that, regardless of the number of people he killed, the Katsuki heir is still bogged down by his family’s fervent moral compass.

But what he is capable of…

She had watched the Atreides army charge at the mage, had known what would befall them for making such a decision, and she hadn’t been able to look away from the sheer beauty of how superior magic is to even the most well-trained army in the world. It really is a shame that such power was wasted on a spineless pacifist like Katsuki.

“Can you defeat that?” the first words Menelaus speaks are directed toward her.

Reluctantly, Kiyomi tears her gaze away from the destroyed battlefield to study the human prince. With her hood shadowing her features, he has no way of tracking how she lazily scans his body, taking in each line of tension, before meeting his gaze.

She gave up her voice long ago and would not have bothered to use it on him even if she hadn’t. Her thoughts flow directly to the prince, excluding his retainers.

_Unfortunately for us both, Kiev maintains an advantage in the sheer strength of magical might available. That was the work of perhaps the most powerful mage alive today._

Menelaus scowls. “What good are you if you can’t defeat the damned mage?”

Kiyomi’s fingers twitch at the prince’s tone, itching to snuff out his life like an obnoxiously flickering candle at the end of its wick. She could do it. Could take care of the rest of the Atreides army here and now and move onto a different venture. However, for the Katsuki heir to attack an entire army rather than running away (as he had been running for the past decade) means it’s likely won’t stay quiet much longer. While the boy could run off and try to forget the events of today ever happened, eventually, he could become a problem she would need to handle, and handling him now before he gets his bearings could be so much simpler.

Which means she needs the prince alive for just a while longer.

 _I did not say I could not defeat him._ She corrects, keeping her irritation to herself. _He is powerful but inexperienced. With the proper steps to prepare, he can be handled. However, it will take some time and I will require the assistance of my apprentice._

That mollifies Menelaus, if only slightly. “So, we need to pull back and wait for reinforcements.”

_We would need to do that regardless of when I attack the mage unless you mean to defeat Nikiforov while he clearly has the advantage?_

Anger flashes on the prince’s face, but he does not antagonize her further. Turning away from the ruined army below them, he raises his voice, “Give the command to fall back. We will send messengers for reinforcements and wait out the winter near the southern border.”

As movement finally bursts around them, Kiyomi turns back to the battlefield. The Katsuki boy has long since been ushered away, no doubt to be tended to in one of the tents just barely visible from her vantage point. Enemy riders scour the corpses, searching for injured fellows in a race against the vultures. More than one has to pause to vomit—the smell of burnt flesh probably overpowering down below.

_Your Highness. When will your soldiers move out?_

Kiyomi can hear the prince pause, surprised by the formality of her address as it is a rarity in even the best situations. “Before nightfall. We should get out of Nikiforov’s reach as soon as possible.”

_I request a small escort. No more than two men. I would like to conduct some reconnaissance while the mage is weak._

She can feel Menelaus’ eyes on the back of her head, trying to get her measure as if he has ever been successful in predicting her actions before. After a long moment, he grunts in affirmation, “Pull two mounted soldiers out of their unit to escort the mage.”

“Yes, Your Highness!” Someone shouts, running off immediately.

Menelaus leaves immediately after, leaving Kiyomi alone in the command tent, eyes still fixed out over the remains of the massacre below her. The corner of her lips curls up into the tiniest smile—the pain that laces through her body at the action gets professionally ignored—and Kiyomi lets out a low thoughtful hum.

The Katsuki boy is promising to be an interesting challenge.

 

* * *

 

A hand slams against the low conference table with force. “Your Majesty, we can’t just let a Great Mage like him live in our borders without precautions, especially not after what happened to your late mother.”

For the first time since the victory over the Atreides vanguard (several hours before this council of generals was called), Viktor feels something other than the mind-numbing shock that has plagued him since Yuuri’s surprise arrival on the battlefield. He leans forward, propping his chin on a hand so that he can study the speaker from underneath his lashes. “Sir Vetrov, while we appreciate the fervor of your counsel, you would do well to leave the late queen’s circumstances out of this.”

“But Your Majesty-”

He holds up a hand, cutting the knight off mid-sentence. “Furthermore, Katsuki has been living peacefully within our borders for over five years and only used his magic when called upon by the Crown. What more can we request of him as a law-abiding citizen of our kingdom? Without Katsuki here, this army would have been wiped out and Kiev would have ceased to exist. We will not reward his aid with punishment.”

To his right, Yakov clears his throat. “That is all well and good, but might your personal relationship with Katsuki be coloring your judgment?”

If a glare would have worked on Yakov, Viktor would have sent one in his direction immediately. He knows better, however, so he merely raises an eyebrow. “Any relationship fostered with Katsuki was built on lies and deceit. Furthermore, when the weight of Kiev’s crown was passed down, our priorities centered on the good of the kingdom. Would it not be in the kingdom’s best interest to align with one of the last Great Mages in existence?”

“Can we guarantee Katsuki will not turn on us?” that question comes from further down the table.

With a shrug, Viktor rises, ready for the discussion to come to a close. “Monitoring his movements and motives will fall under the purview of Lady Babicheva, whom we trust whole-heartedly. A hard-earned victory was won today, please, take some time to celebrate.”

He barely pays attention to the way the others in the room get to their feet just seconds behind his own movements and bow in response. Viktor is out of the command tent before Yakov can so much as draw a breath to tell him to wait. He strides between the rows of canvas tents, nodding politely to those brave enough to greet him, aware that a second set of footsteps fell in sync with his as soon as he was out of sight of the command tent.

“They want to lock him up, don’t they?” For all his temper and bouts of immaturity, Yuri Plisetsky is a noble of Kiev’s court and knows how to read the political currents. “After he saved their damn lives.”

Viktor bites back a grin. “You aren’t worried about him, are you?”

There’s a snort from his squire. “That damned freak can look after himself. I don’t need you getting all emotional or anything.”

“I’ll be fine, Yuri.” He glances down into doubtful eyes and lets a small smile filter through. “You did well today. Take the night off and celebrate with your friends.”

Yuri doesn’t move right away. He crosses his arms and stares up at Viktor, eyes flicking between Viktor’s own, trying to catch one in a lie. When he doesn’t seem to find anything out of the ordinary, he responds with a curt nod and informal salute before making his way down through the maze of tents. Viktor watches him go, waiting until Yuri is out of sight before turning in the opposite direction and making his way toward the tents closer to the battlefield.

The presence of armed soldiers is heavier here. While the remains of the Atreides army retreated when the sun was still up, it’s unlikely that the enemy soldiers have gotten far and it would be foolish to assume a surprise attack after nightfall being out of bounds for a man like Menelaus.

Viktor’s destination is by far the largest, and busiest, tent in the entire encampment. People are still rushing in and out and he suspects it will be several more hours until the nurses get to rest. Thanks to Yuuri intervening, there are far fewer troops to tend to than there could have been, but the near half-hour of fighting before Yuuri ended the battle was unkind to the Kievan army. He winces slightly just remembering the preliminary estimates of how many soldiers died on the battlefield, and there will certainly be more on the list when he gets his next report in the morning which will include soldiers who succumbed to their injuries in this very tent.

He steps inside and immediately has to dodge a frazzled looking nurse as she carries a bucket of bloody water outside to be dumped and refilled with fresh water. Earlier, when Viktor personally brought Yuuri to get treated, the tent was almost as noisy as the battle: the screams of soldiers in unimaginable agony made worse by the enclosed space. Now, there’s an exhausted sort of quietness in the tent.

A quick glance to where Viktor had originally laid Yuuri shows the cot being occupied by someone else. He scans the tent, wondering if Yuuri is stubborn enough to work despite how sickly he looked just hours ago.

“Excuse me,” Viktor calls at the closest nurse. The woman glances over, her eyes widen, and she dips into a hasty curtsy despite how it makes the bundle of rags in her arms teeter dangerously. “Do you know where I might find Master Katsuki?”

“No, Your Majesty, I’m sorry,” she replies. “He woke up just after sunset and got straight to work. He would’ve stayed working if Tasha hadn’t pushed him out the tent and told him to rest before coming back.”

“Tasha?” Viktor repeats the name.

The woman shifts her hold on the rags, balancing them precariously in one arm to point at an even younger woman (barely older than Yurio) a few cots away. “That’s her, she might be able to tell you where he went.”

“Thank you,” Viktor says with a nod before moving further into the tent.

Tasha is kneeling next to a cot, mouth occupied with bandages as nimble fingers make quick work of sewing closed a wound on a soldier’s leg. Clapping the man on the shoulder, Viktor gives him a small smile and murmurs, “Well fought.”

“T-thank you, sire.”

Looking up, frowning as if wanting to scold the soldier for moving, Tasha’s flushed cheeks lose a bit of her color when she meets Viktor’s gaze. Quickly tying off her stitches, the young nurse removes the bandaging from her mouth and begins to wrap it tightly around the wound.

“You wouldn’t be looking for Master Katsuki, would you, Your Majesty?” when she speaks, her voice tremors with nerves and Viktor briefly wonders how she was able to kick Yuuri out of the tent with such a timid personality.

“I was told you sent him to rest,” Viktor confirms. “Did you happen to see what direction he went in?”

To Viktor’s surprise, Tasha rolls her eyes. “Not in the direction of his tent. He’s stubborn alright, argued with me for a few minutes before I pointed out the longer we spent arguing was the longer I was away from helping save lives and then he kept his mouth shut.”

Pushing back an amused smile, Viktor prods, “So he went?”

“Toward the battlefield,” is the dry answer. “I doubt any of the soldiers let him get far though. I only watched him go for a second before getting back to work, but he hasn’t come ‘round since, sire.”

“Thank you,” he says, “and thank you for keeping him from working himself to the ground.”

Tasha glances up from her work with eyes wide to stumble out, “We all…he’s a kind man: Master Katsuki, that is. We don’t want him to strain himself, majesty. It’s really not much.”

“I don’t think many of the other nurses would have done something about it, though. So, thank you, and keep up the good work, Tasha.” Viktor squeezes the soldier’s shoulder warmly before nodding to them both and making his way back out the tent.

He pauses just outside the flaps, taking in the refreshing cool air: a stark contrast to the sweltering heat and stench of the medical tent. Tasha was right to assume the soldiers guarding the perimeter of the camp, particularly the ones closest to the battlefield, would not let Yuuri wander through on his own. And while there’s probably some kind of magic that would let Yuuri move undetected, the way Yuuri collapsed, the utter paleness of his face as Viktor raced to the medical tent, gives Viktor the impression that Yuuri won’t be doing much magic for at least the rest of the day.

But Yuuri is used to his small cottage in his small village. The bustle of the camp, particularly the immediate notoriety he achieved (and the fear and distrust that is bound to come with it) it unlikely that Yuuri would willingly surround himself with more people particularly when he’s feeling so weak.

Walking to the edge of the camp closest to the battle, Viktor goes around the outside of the tents, walking between the outskirts of the camp and the beginning of the wilderness, nodding casually to the patrols he passes, eyes scanning carefully for the wayward mage. He is near the middle of the camp when something makes Viktor stop, and he tilts his head, considering his surroundings.

It’s impossible to see far outside the lights of the camp; the waning moon provides some faint light, but not enough to see any distance. However, Viktor thinks he can feel a small thrum of heat radiating from the charm at his chest and he takes a hesitant step away from the camp. A gentle breeze swirls around him, circling Viktor as if it has a mind of its own and pushing at the backs of his knees, making him stumble forward another step.

The wind giving Viktor directions would definitely not be the weirdest thing Viktor has experienced since meeting Yuuri, so he decides to move with it, letting the breeze push him along for a few minutes until the bustle of the encampment has turned into a distant hum.

Then, he catches another noise, this one distinctly human: someone retching.

Squinting against the darkness, Viktor moves toward the noise until a figure rises out of the night. Hand dropping to the sword at his hilt, Viktor steps closer until the moonlight throws Yuuri’s figure into relief.

Yuuri looks like he’s ready to collapse again, swaying violently where he stands. His eyes are fixed on Viktor as if he had heard Viktor coming and was waiting to see who would appear. His eyes brown again (judging by how they don’t glow unnaturally in the moonlight), and Viktor briefly wonders if the gold faded as soon as he collapsed or if the glasses now settled on Yuuri’s face filter the golden hue away.

Yuuri blinks at Viktor, frowning as if confused, before stumbling forward dangerously as if about to fall.

Concern crashes through Viktor in a wave and he surges forward, reaching out, “Yuuri!”

“Don’t touch me!”

The snapped response shocks Viktor into stillness, his hand suspended in the air, inches away from where Yuuri had caught himself, just barely managing to stay upright.

Yuuri meets his gaze, face twisted with pain. No matter how small and vulnerable he looks right now, Yuuri has the power to kill Viktor in a breath, and the tense coil of his body is rapidly setting Viktor on edge.

Eyes blinking closed, Yuuri mumbles, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. I just need a few minutes.”

A convulsion wracks through his body and Yuuri’s face gets paler; he swears and pivots, dry-heaving into the bushes behind him.

Viktor doesn’t know how long he stands there, silently watching Yuuri suffer and wishing he could do something to help, before the mage sinks to a seat on the ground, back resting against the tree. “I think the worst of it has passed.”

“Worst of it?” Viktor repeats, incredulous. “Are you alright?”

Yuuri laughs, it is the dry and hollow-sounding laugh that Viktor is quickly growing to hate. “You really don’t know much about magic, do you?”

Viktor sinks so he is sitting opposite Yuuri. “I read the books I could get my hands on in the library, but they were mostly historical. I don’t know much, if anything, about magic itself.”

There’s a thoughtful hum from the mage. “The use of magic is limited by various natural factors, but the most important of them is the Law of Equivalent Exchange which dictates that everything has a price. It means magic isn’t unlimited and isn’t free to use, there is always some sort of exchange in magic usage. In particular, taking a life requires some form of payment as extreme as the action of killing.”

“Payment?”

“My payment is to feel the pain of the dying moments of everyone I killed today.”

The battlefield rises to Viktor’s mind, the bodies that had been strewn like abandoned dolls, the army Yuuri had wiped out in a second. Viktor feels like he is going to be sick.

“Yuuri,” he murmurs, “that price is too steep, that could kill you too.”

“Kiev was outnumbered. You almost died.”

“Well, yes, but…”

Even now, violent shudders pass through his body and sweat shines on his forehead. If Viktor could transfer the pain to himself, he would in a heartbeat.

“You don’t have an heir. If you die, Kiev will fall.” Yuuri lets his eyes flutter shut. “When I rode with you, I knew what would happen. It’s fine, Viktor.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Fine, it isn’t. But what’s done is done. Dwelling on it is pointless.”

Running his gaze over Yuuri’s face, Viktor’s heart aches at how utterly drained Yuuri looks. Small winces tug at his features every few seconds, accompanied with slight shudders that indicate Yuuri is still feeling his repayment for the deaths of the enemy soldiers. Viktor wonders how long it will take for each death to be suitably repaid, if Yuuri will even be able to sleep tonight.

Eyes dropping from Yuuri’s face, Viktor’s gaze lands on Yuuri’s hands, clenched in the fabric of his trousers so tightly that his knuckles are white. Just the memory of the sheer magnitude of power that left Yuuri’s fingers is both thrilling and terrifying and, cautiously, Viktor reaches out covering Yuuri’s right hand with his own. Gently, Viktor eases Yuuri’s grip on his trousers and pulls his hand out into the space between them before turning it over.

Yuuri’s fingertips are still blackened.

Glancing up, Viktor asks, “Do they hurt?”

Without opening his eyes, Yuuri gives a minute shake of his head.

“Can I touch them?”

There’s hesitation, silence stretching between them as Viktor holds his breath, waiting for Yuuri’s response.

A tiny nod.

Slowly, afraid that Yuuri might change his mind, might tell Viktor not to touch him at all, Viktor reaches out with his other hand and brushes the pads of his fingers lightly across Yuuri’s fingertips.

“Still doesn’t hurt?”

Another shake of the head.

Putting a bit more pressure behind his movements, Viktor presses his fingertips against Yuuri’s, trying to see if there’s any difference in the texture of the blackened skin than the unmarked. There isn’t a difference in texture (as much as Viktor can tell), but something about the scar—which is all Viktor can think to call it without more information—feels electric, sending shock waves through Viktor’s fingers and up his arm. He gets the sense that if he pressed hard enough the shock would be almost paralyzing.

Looking up, Viktor is surprised to meet Yuuri’s gaze: the mage staring at him without any indication of what he’s thinking. Yuuri’s face is still too pale to be healthy, but some color has returned to his cheeks and the tip of his nose, and it’s enough to make Viktor smile: relieved.

“What did the council decide to do with me?” Yuuri asks. “You met for over an hour, didn’t you?”

“Met is a strong word,” Viktor sighs, “they mostly argued with each other for a while before I told them to stop. They didn’t decide anything, I didn’t let them.”

“So, what will you do with me?”

“Do with you?”

Yuuri shrugs. “I’m dangerous, everyone knows that. There’s a reason my ancestors lived cut off from the rest of the world, people are scared of us.”

“I believe you’re asking the wrong question. It’s not what will I do _with_ you but rather what will I do _for_ you.”

“For me?”

“You saved my life, and the life of my best friend, and my irritable squire. You saved the lives of thousands of my soldiers and gave all of Kiev a fighting chance. My job as monarch is to keep the people of this kingdom safe and it’s thanks to you that I will have the opportunity to do that. I would not reward that with fear and distrust; all you have is my gratitude,” Viktor says, turning Yuuri’s hand over in his. “So, I say thank you, and if you would like a reward, I would be more than happy to do that for you.”

“I don’t need a reward,” Yuuri’s response is predictable. “But your council can’t be happy with just having me roam around.”

“If it weren’t for you, they wouldn’t be alive to give such a simple-minded opinion on the matter,” Viktor replies, voice dry. “For however long you remain in Kiev I will make it clear that you have my trust and support. Anyone who is concerned about you will have to take it up with me directly.”

“That won’t be popular.”

Viktor shrugs and presses a kiss to the back of Yuuri’s hand. “You protected me, let me protect you from the vipers of court. I’ll happily do it until you tire of me.”

The statement earns him a tired smile, Yuuri considering him from half-lidded eyes. “You already protected me from that wolf.”

“You protected me from that poisoned knife in my duel, and from that attack in the banquet hall,” Viktor lists off without hesitation.

Eyes dropping back down to the hand in his grip, Viktor stares at the way Yuuri’s scar fades into his skin just before reaching the joint closest to the fingertips. It’s physical evidence of how much Yuuri has sacrificed for Viktor’s safety, and Viktor brings Yuuri’s hand up again, pressing his lips to the tip of Yuuri’s longest finger. His eyes close momentarily at the shock that tingles the sensitive skin of his mouth and rushes down his spine.

Once the shock has faded enough for him to speak, Viktor lets out a slight sigh. “I’ve caused you much more trouble than I’m worth, I’m afraid.”

Yuuri doesn’t reply.

Looking up, Viktor feels his breath catch in his throat. The mage’s mouth is slightly parted, eyes wide behind his glasses, the color on his cheeks brighter now. As if responding, Viktor’s own cheeks warm: he hadn’t really thought before placing that particular kiss.

However, Yuuri hasn’t pulled his hand away, and that gives Viktor a rush of courage entirely different from what he feels in battle. Holding Yuuri’s gaze, Viktor presses another kiss to Yuuri’s pointer finger.

A gasp leaves Yuuri, so soft that Viktor isn’t even sure he heard it, the noise mixing with the shock already racing through Viktor’s system at the contact with the magical scar.

Suddenly, another violent shudder racks Yuuri’s frame and he snatches his hand away to wrap both arms around his stomach as he doubles over in pain.

Gritting his teeth, Viktor forces himself to stay still, keeping his own hands at his side as he waits out the fit. He only reaches out when Yuuri straightens again, breathing heavily—his face completely pale again.

“You should lie down,” Viktor says, “if this continues much more you won’t be able to walk back to camp and it isn’t safe out here.”

“I don’t want to go back like this,” Yuuri mumbles, “if someone tries to attack me-”

“No one will attack you in my camp,” Viktor cuts him off, voice cold at the idea. “I’ll have Chris assign some of his men to the tent, they’ll keep you safe. You need to rest, Yuuri.”

It’s clear from the way Yuuri’s mouth twists that he still isn’t fond of going to camp, but he pulls himself to his feet (swaying dangerously for a moment) before starting off back toward the rest of the army. Viktor keeps in step, watching Yuuri closely in case the mage collapses again.

Yuuri falters just outside the edge of the encampment, squinting against the sudden increase of light, now looking slightly green. “They’re going to be terrified of me.”

“Some will be,” Viktor affirms, “but the ones with sense will be grateful for you. Besides, I’m going to escort you to your tent so no one will say anything to you either way.”

Taking a deep breath, Yuuri steps back into the camp. His steps are hesitant, and every now and then he pauses as a violent shudder almost sends him toppling to the ground. Through it all, Viktor keeps pace, ready to catch Yuuri in case it’s necessary. And as much as he might have preferred to simply carry the younger man to their destination, Viktor can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Yuuri’s determination as he slowly makes his way toward his tent; playing witness to the battle Yuuri is waging to just get to a place of rest is awe-inspiring. 

When they reach Yuuri’s tent, Viktor is unsurprised to see the young fighter Prince Chulanont sent as Yuuri’s bodyguard waiting outside. The fighter—Seung-gil, if Viktor remembers correctly—has a bandage wrapping his upper arm but otherwise looks no worse for wear. Having seen the game the man brought in for the caravan while they were marching south, Viktor has no doubt that he can handle himself quite spectacularly in a fight.

Seung-gil considers Yuuri, dark eyes measuring. “You look like shit.”

Glancing away to hide his smile at the blunt statement, Viktor flags down the nearest runner as Yuuri replies, “Thanks, I feel like shit.”

“Then why did you go wandering off on your own?” Seung-gil asks.

The runner bows in front of Viktor and he relays a quick message for Christophe, asking for a pair of guards for Yuuri’s tent before sending the runner off.

When he turns back to the conversation, he finds Yuuri and Seung-gil have moved inside and Yuuri is seated on the edge of his cot as he says, “You should be resting yourself. You were out fighting with the ambush team and you look just as bad as I do.”

“The only people who look just as bad as you do in this camp are fighting for their lives in the medical tent.” Viktor has barely exchanged two words with Seung-gil, but his matter-of-fact responses are quickly earning Viktor’s respect.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Yuuri motions to Viktor. “He’s giving me a pair of bodyguards for the night, I’ll be fine. Go rest.”

“He is?” Seung-gil glances over at Viktor, seemingly unbothered by the fact that Viktor is royalty.

Nodding, Viktor adds, “For the rest of the trip, actually, and as long as we feel it’s necessary.”

“Hmm,” Seung-gil considers the statement before nodding, “I’ve seen your guards, they’re good.” Looking back at Yuuri, Seung-gil adds, “if I hear word that you went back to the medical tent to work before getting a full day of rest I’m going to report it straight to his highness and watch as he skins you for being reckless.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes even as a small smile plays on his lips. “Yes, sir.”

Seemingly satisfied with the answer, Seung-gil gets to his feet and makes his way to the entrance of the tent, inclining his head just slightly in respect as he passes Viktor on his way out.

“I’ll stay with you until Chris’ men get here if you don’t mind,” Viktor says, moving to the side of the tent to pick up the flint seated on a stool so he can light the brazier in the corner and the candle beside Yuuri’s cot.

“You need rest too,” Yuuri counters.

“They won’t take long.”

Turning, he notices Yuuri trying to undo the clasp on his cloak. Even from a distance, Viktor can see how Yuuri’s hands violently tremble, making the task difficult.

Viktor’s across the tent before he even registers he’s moving, gently pushing Yuuri’s hands out of the way to handle the clasp himself, pulling the cloak from Yuuri’s shoulders and setting it aside. Without a word, he sinks to his knees, fingers working carefully to undo the knots on Yuuri’s boot strings, loosen the laces enough to slide the shoes off Yuuri’s feet and place the boots at the end of the cot.

“Viktor.” Looking up, Viktor meets Yuuri’s gaze.

For some reason, Yuuri’s eyes widen and the mage seems to lose his train of thought, merely reaching out to brush hair away from Viktor’s face. The touch sends a shiver down Viktor’s spine that he knows can’t be entirely blamed on the electric feeling of Yuuri’s scar. Logically, Viktor knows it’s beyond unlikely that Yuuri is using any magic at all, but Viktor feels as if he’s been frozen in place, kneeling at Yuuri’s feet.

“Master Katsuki, we were sent to guard you at His Majesty’s req-”

The flap opens behind them and the speaker abruptly cuts off. Reluctantly, Viktor turns to take in the shock on the two guards faces and spares a thought of gratitude that his personal guard doesn’t let gossip leave their ranks (though he’s sure Christophe will give him hell for this later).

Spell broken, Viktor gets to his feet. “Thank you both. Please make sure Master Katsuki doesn’t try to overextend himself, and no one should enter this tent save for Seung-gil Lee without Katsuki’s permission. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” both guards say, recovering from their surprise rapidly.

They step back outside, letting the flap shut to leave Yuuri and Viktor alone once more.

Looking down at Yuuri now, Viktor smiles. “Thank you again, Yuuri. I’ll come visit you when you’re feeling better. Please don’t worry about the nurses, they’re doing wonderfully in your absence.”

Yuuri smiles in return. “Rest well, Viktor.”

The simple three words follow Viktor out of the tent with a smile that he isn’t able to dim all the way to his own tent.

 

* * *

 

The screams won’t stop. Thousands upon thousands of voices scream in terror as Yuuri’s magic rips through them.

For the lucky, those directly in his line of fire, they’re incinerated in an instant—the pain beyond human comprehension but gone as quickly as it comes. For the unlucky, his power tears through their skin, taking limbs and chunks of flesh with it and leaving behind a pain of its own so intense that many hearts simply give out.

But even dead as they are, they won’t stop screaming.

How is he supposed to get any rest if they won’t stop screaming?

Eyes stubbornly closed, Yuuri tosses in his cot, trying to push back the echoes of the soldiers he killed. It’s been years since taking a life kept him up at night, but Yuuri has never killed on such a large scale before, he can’t say anyone has ever killed on such a large scale before. Perhaps the screams will simply drive him mad, perhaps that will be his true payment for such a horrendous act.

As if summoned by the thought of payment, fire races through Yuuri’s veins. Unspeakably agony lighting him up from the inside out and he bolts upright, hands clenching into fists as he tries to breathe through the pain. At least this is the suffering that no more than two or three souls went through at once; when Yuuri first woke he was bombarded with the pain of hundreds at once until he thought the ceaseless torture would kill him too.

_I was curious what you offered in exchange. I suppose in some sense it feels poetic, to understand their suffering. Though, the hunter does not pierce himself in retribution for shooting down his prey._

The voice is not quite a voice at all. No actual noise reaches Yuuri’s ears but he can hear every word as if the speaker is directly beside him, or even inside his skull. Blinking his eyes open, Yuuri bites back a strangled gasp at the sight of a cloaked and hooded figure settled on the small stool in his tent. Between the pair of them is one of the candles Yuuri thought he blew out before trying to sleep, the faint light doing little to identify his visitor other than the shape of their garments.

“How did you-”

 _Don’t ask foolish questions, boy._ The figure cuts him off. _And do keep your mouth shut, it would draw unwanted attention and I have no qualms about stopping whatever hearts are necessary._

Swallowing harshly, body still trembling with the aftershocks of his latest fit, Yuuri shifts on his cot so he’s facing the figure. He doesn’t even have to reach inside of himself to know that his magical reserves are still dangerously low. Whoever this is, if they came to hurt him, he has little in the way of defense.

Despite the harsh command, Yuuri opens his mouth again, keeping his voice low as he says, “You’re the mage working with the Atreides Empire.” When he’s not immediately reprimanded, he continues, “and you’re the old royal mage, the one Queen Isidora banished for practicing taboo. Why are you-”

_Clearly you read my journals, otherwise, you would have died today trying to save Nikiforov. You more than any of those humans I am forced to entertain understand exactly why I’m doing what I am doing._

“Did you come-”

 _To kill you?_ The figure tilts their head. _As much as it would be my pleasure, whatever last dregs of magic are still coursing through your veins would put up enough of a fight to draw attention, and to fight my way out of this camp is to put my life at unnecessary risk. If you die tonight, it will not be at my hand._

“Then why-”

The figure pulls its hands from inside the sleeves of its robe and Yuuri’s question catches in his throat at the sight of black webs lining pale skin. Reflexively he, he clenches his right hand into a fist, hiding his own marks from sight as delicate hands reach up to the hood of the cloak.

When it’s pulled away, and Yuuri can clearly see his visitor’s face, he lets out another strangled gasp before clasping his hand over his mouth to keep from attracting the guards’ attention.

A single finger is held over the mage’s lips, an unspoken reminder for silence, drawing attention to what Yuuri can only assume to be self-mutilation fueled by a hunger for power. Black thread crosses precisely over her mouth, sewing it shut; the healing around each piercing that locks the thread into place implies the stitches to have been in place for quite some time, perhaps even years.

Yuuri’s mind balks just wondering the sort of magical working the mage performed to warrant such a payment.

_It is impressive to note how quickly you were able to apply the theories in my journals: it implies that you’re teachable and not quite as morally rigid as your predecessors. So, Katsuki Yuuri, I would offer you the chance to walk away from this unscathed. As powerful as you are, you lack the stomach to perform the kinds of magical workings you would need to defeat me and stop the Atreides army. Over the winter, Prince Menelaus and King Nikiforov will prepare to continue their war and I will prepare to end the Katsuki line as it stands. You will have that time to make your choice, and your best decision would be to retreat. You’ve spent the last decade doing a marvelous job of keeping out of my way and staying hidden, perhaps it is time for you to return to that mindset._

Dragging his eyes away from her mutilated lips, Yuuri meets the mage’s gaze, trying to read something on her face other than indifference. The choice he’s being offered now is different from the threats she leveled his way in the past, is at odds with the unchecked ambition he read in her journals; someone driven enough to take needle and thread to their own lips would not be so willing to let a potential threat walk away.

“Retreat and turn a blind eye while you help that man ravage the continent?” Yuuri presses.

_Don’t act high and mighty now, Katsuki, you had years to take up the mantle left behind by your mother and instead you only thought of your own safety._

She gets to her feet, pulling the hood back over her head to cover her face. Even so, Yuuri can feel her eyes boring into him as she adds, _As the youngest born, you were never meant to be the Magic Keeper. You can pretend to be something you are not as much as you want, child, but how can you cast judgment after the act you performed today?_

Yuuri has no answer for her. The mage doesn’t seem to expect one because she immediately turns away, the candlelight dying with the flick of her cloak and the sudden darkness swallowing her whole, making it appear as if she was never there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: _Bleeding Out_ by Imagine Dragons.


	20. respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The arrival of winter provides a needed break from mayhem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies (again) for the long wait between last chapter and this one! The last couple of weeks have been insane for me and I've just now been able to give the story the attention it deserves. 
> 
> [**Fic Playlist** || listen on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq)  
>  This Chapter: Song 18  
> 

The Viktor and Yuuri that left the castle courtyard separated by over a hundred soldiers and some kind of an intangible wall are not the same Viktor and Yuuri that return to the capital. Mila can tell as much the moment the caravan enters the courtyard (greeted by triumphant cheers from those who could skirt their duties long enough to welcome the victorious company home).

From her place on the castle steps—shielded from the steady cascade of snow—Mila watches with no small amount of curiosity as Viktor seems to tease Yuuri about something, tugging on one of five or six cloaks the mage is bundled in. Yuuri swats Viktor’s hands away, cheeks bright red as he says something that makes Viktor laugh with a small smile.

She has received reports, of course. A steady stream from the various agents mingled within the army and posted in villages along the highway. She already knew about how Yuuri had single-handedly saved the battle, how Viktor had rigidly defended Yuuri in every general’s meeting that had taken place on the long march back to the capital since. She had raised an eyebrow at reports of how Viktor repeatedly trailed back through the caravan to ride abreast with Yuuri as the mage oversaw the transport of soldiers too injured to ride or walk back on their own.

Objectively, Mila had already known something had shifted between the pair. But seeing is believing, and Mila drums her fingers on her hips as she watches them, fighting back a small smile.

This will be interesting.

Viktor’s horse comes to a stop not far from the steps and he tears his gaze away from Yuuri to wave up at her. “Lady Babicheva! How fares the capital in my absence?”

Smile growing into something more mischievous, Mila sweeps an elegant curtsey. “It seems the trouble follows you, majesty. The capital has remained unchanged. My congratulations on a victorious campaign against the would-be conquerors.”

He dismounts, waving away Yuuri—who rides back to help the nurses rushing into the courtyard for the still injured soldiers—and climbs the steps until he’s level with Mila. It feels like, just yesterday, they were on these steps just minutes before Viktor rode away, taking her closest friends with him to a war where they had no right to be returning from alive.

(She’ll have to remember to thoroughly thank Yuuri for saving their lives later.)

Viktor places his hands on her shoulders and leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. “I’m sure the council was not nearly as easy to manage as you’re pretending. Thank you.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Mila protests.

“Your job is handling my kingdom’s spies, not the jockeying courtiers,” comes the firm argument. “If I didn’t have someone reliable like you, going to war would be a nightmare.”

Rolling her eyes, Mila says, “I’m your friend, Viktor, not to mention our families have a long history together. I’m here to help. However, we will need to find a time to speak soon.”

Viktor sighs and turns out to survey the courtyard. It’s organized chaos as servants rush forward to handle supplies and loved ones reunite with tears and laughter. Stretchers rush past them up the steps and through other side entrances as Yuuri directs them—the nurses following his orders without hesitation.

“How much did the court hear about the battle?”

“As little as I could tell them,” Mila murmurs. “They know the Atreides Empire outnumbered us, they know you lead a valiant counter effort, and they know our victory was so decisive that the enemy will not strike back until after the snows melt. But, with your return, they’ll learn the truth of it by day’s end.”

“It’s been hard enough convincing the council of generals who rode with me not to act against him.”

“There’s nothing quite as frightening as a power beyond your comprehension. They’re going to want some way to guarantee he won’t hurt them.”

Viktor scoffs. “It’s foolish.”

Mila quirks an eyebrow. “And when did we agree the court was a modicum of wisdom?”

Shaking his head to dismiss the topic, he asks, “I assume there’s a banquet prepared?”

“Only the best for your victory,” she confirms, “two hours past sundown.”

“We can talk afterward. I’ll come to your office.”

Mila nods and motions toward the palace. “Go get rested, Majesty. It will be a long night.”

Viktor gives her a grateful smile and strides into the castle. Mila watches him go for a moment before turning back out to the bustle of the courtyard, eyes falling immediately on the Great Mage that has all at once made her job endlessly more difficult but made her friend incredibly happy. Letting out a measured breath of air, Mila resigns herself to a long several weeks trying to defend Viktor’s, frankly, soft stance on Yuuri’s place in the kingdom.

Mage and monarch. This is certainly going to be interesting.

And ‘interesting’ turns out to be an understatement because Viktor hits the ground running in terms of increasing her workload. It starts that evening at the victory banquet, where Viktor announces to all present (without giving Mila _any_ forewarning) how Yuuri had single-handedly saved the entire army and then gives the mage an honorary knighthood.

Of all the surprises to spring.

“I thought we had agreed to think of a containment plan regarding the council’s reaction to Yuuri!” Mila snaps, slamming her hands on her desk and glaring at the king across from her.

Viktor shrugs. “An honorary knighthood is a traditional reward for acts of valor in Kiev and much less than Yuuri deserves.”

“Yuuri is a _mage,_ Viktor. The attitude of the courtiers towards mages has been sour since Romanov’s predecessor was expelled from the kingdom. And knighthood, no matter how honorary, is considered a significant rank. Not only will the council take issue with it, but so will the knights themselves.”

“My knights should know better than to treat anyone of my favor poorly.”

Mila drops her head so it’s hanging between her shoulders as she mutters to her desk. “I swear, sometimes you’re the same hapless page I met when I came to court.”

“I’m sorry to stress you, Mila, but I can’t very well take back the knighthood,” Viktor reasons, sounding genuinely apologetic for the first time in their conversation. “But the council also can’t advocate that I imprison a knight of Kiev without a just cause and a fair trial.”

At that, Mila glances back up at him, running her gaze over Viktor’s expression. His face is stern, jaw set, eyes glinting in the light of the torches and braziers. Here, she sees the conviction and self-assurance of a king, and Mila sighs.

“You did that on purpose because you knew I would advise against it.”

“I did. I apologize.”

“You’re the king, it is your prerogative,” Mila replies, dropping into her seat. “And you’re right, Yuuri having a title in Kiev limits the council in terms of what they can advocate doing to him. It will tie a lot of hands, but they won’t be happy about it.”

Viktor nods. “I know, we’ll need to be several steps ahead of them. If what happened to Romanov happened to Yuuri, in my home, under my watch…” he trails off, looking thoroughly unsettled at the thought, before plowing on. “Yuuri should be safe here.”

“I’ll have eyes on him whenever he’s out of his chambers, and Chris has already assigned a guard rotation to his rooms.”

“Good. What else do we need to discuss?”

Mila hums thoughtfully, wondering if it’s better to save her current line of thought for later. Then, she remembers the utter shock she had been in during the banquet and decides turnabout is fair game. “Do you intend to make Yuuri the Royal Mage?”

Viktor’s eyes widen and he leans back in his seat, putting as much distance between them as he can without actually getting up from the chair and walking away. The unfiltered reaction makes Mila feel just a touch of satisfaction as she waits for his answer.

“I…Yuuri has made it clear that he doesn’t have a desire to serve in a royal court.”

“He also had no desire to kill thousands of men in that battle, but he did,” Mila counters. “It doesn’t take a genius to notice Yuuri’s priorities are shifting and that they’re shifting towards you and towards Kiev. Have you broached the subject with him?”

“No.”

Mila leans forward, resting her forearms on her desk as she stares Viktor down, watching his every reaction carefully. “Yuuri broached the subject with me when we first visited Romanov’s study. After considering what he said then, it seems to me that it was Queen Isidora’s intention to ask Yuuri to serve upon you ascending the throne.”

“Well, my mother had many intentions she was unable to see to their finish.” Viktor’s voice is tense, and Mila knows him well enough to realize when she cannot push any further.

With a shrug, she drops her own gaze to the papers on her desk. “Regarding important matters of business, I think you should be aware…”

The report she rattles off is one she could give in her sleep. Mila’s been building it steadily since Viktor and the army rode off to war a month ago. She’s kept careful track of what happenings in Kiev and around the kingdom will require Viktor’s attention immediately and which ones can wait until he’s settled in for a few more days. It’s succinct thanks to the fact that the majority of their problems exist in the form of an invading army Viktor already went to deal with.

As she talks, Mila’s attention shifts back to the question of the mage and her king. There have been times, more than she would care to count, where she wasn’t sure if Viktor’s sense of duty to his title would outweigh his attachment to Yuuri. There have been times where she was worried Yuuri might just steal Viktor from them all, that the pair would vanish overnight without anyone in the palace able to follow them to whatever sanctuary they found. Other times, most of them (thank the gods), Viktor made it quite clear that his duty to the kingdom was more important than any connection he may have with the mage.

But now.

Mila passes a report over the table to Viktor, pausing in her recounting of current events to let him read. As he does, she runs her gaze over Viktor’s face. The conviction that had filled his expression when discussing Yuuri’s safety is not to be taken lightly. It is almost as if Viktor wants to be able to balance his title as king with his friendship. But to do that without appointing Yuuri the Royal Mage… Mila cannot see it being done, at least not without a bit of turmoil.

“Are you alright?” Viktor asks, cutting through her thoughts.

Mila directs a curious look at him. “I’m fine.”

“You let out this sigh, it sounded like something was really bothering you.”

“I just have a lot on my mind, Majesty,” she replies easily, “but I wouldn’t go so far as to say any of those thoughts are enough to bother me.”

Viktor gives her a smile. “No, I don’t suppose they would be.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor comes down with a cold a mere two days after arriving back in the capital. It’s harmless, and among anyone else, it would be no real cause for concern since most sane individuals would rather commit to one day of rest than to try and push through the sickness for a week.

Of course, telling _Viktor_ that he and needs rest proves to be a task a bit too difficult for any of his retainers to handle.

Glaring at the king from her seat on the end of the conference table, Mila resists the urge to drag Viktor out by the collar of his overcoat. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks a bright pink, and even though his voice is as even and commanding as ever as he outlines possible strategies for Kiev to handle the invaders in the spring, Mila thinks that if he so much as stands too quickly he might collapse from the fever he’s so clearly running.

Idiot.

Truly, Mila’s fortune might be considered tragic. After all, it’s not like she had any choice in the matter when it came to pledging her unwavering loyalty to Viktor. She’s a Babicheva, and the Babichev family serves the Nikiforov house. That is the end of it. As much as she considers Viktor a friend, it is more than irksome when he gets particularly stubborn.

After all, it’s unlikely that Viktor even considered how much work he’d be foisting off on Mila if he succumbed to his fever and had to be nursed back to health for weeks. He might have already been better if he had stayed bedridden when he first started to cough.

Making a decision, Mila tears off a piece of parchment from her tablet and scratches out a quick note. A raised finger grabs the attention of one of the attendants standing along the walls and Mila passes the note to them. Tapping on the name printed clearly on the top in a silent command. The attendant bows and slips from the room.

It takes another twenty minutes for the meeting to adjourn, but by that time Mila’s message has made it to the intended recipient because the attendant returns with a certain mage in tow.

“Yuuri? Is everything alright?” Viktor asks, looking between the attendant and Yuuri.

Yuuri’s mouth is pressed into a thin line as he steps forward and presses a hand to the back of Viktor’s hand, ignoring the surprised murmurs from the courtiers still present. His lips turn down into a frown and he drops his hand. “You should be in bed, resting. You’ll only get more ill by pushing yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

The frown deepens—a feat Mila hadn’t thought possible—and Yuuri’s eyes flash from behind his glasses. Then, he bows, low. “With all due respect, the position your late mother gave me as healer to the crown had no expiration date. Until you dismiss me from that post, I will not mince my words in regard to your health.” Yuuri straightens from his bow to meet Viktor’s gaze squarely. “If you would like to continue doing service to this kingdom, it is my recommendation that you rest before your sickness gets worse and you are bedridden. After recent events, having you away from the public eye due to illness will cause uneasiness among your subjects as well as your court.”

Mila resists the urge to let out a low whistle as she watches the scene, letting the mage’s carefully picked words flow over her. She’s always known Yuuri is clever, even had the sneaking suspicion that he isn’t unused to court, but to see his knowledge used in such a masterful way is quite entertaining.

No one who knows Viktor would expect him to argue back after such a statement. So, it’s no surprise when Viktor lets out a sigh. “I can take reports while resting in my chambers, of course.”

“Of course not,” Yuuri fires back, “not until you get at least four hours of sleep, preferably a whole night’s rest. If your fever breaks, then you can entertain visitors. Please go rest.”

Viktor’s lips curl into a wry grin and he gives Yuuri an informal salute. “Since it is what my healer demands, then I’ll be on my way. Mila?”

She’s on her feet immediately, face schooled into a blank expression. “Majesty?”

“Would you hear the complaints from the coast nobles? They’re meant to be heard in an hour.” Mila draws her breath to say she’ll do no such thing when Viktor gives her a sharp look. “We’ll call it your reprimand for going behind my back to Yuuri.”

Rolling her eyes, Mila gives a sardonic bow. “My honor, Majesty.”

Viktor lets out a huff of amusement and leaves the room. Yuuri watches him go, shaking his head ruefully before looking at Mila. “You’d think he wants to collapse in front of his subjects.”

“He’s too stubborn to listen to any of us who are brave enough to speak up about his health. The last time there was a problem I had to lock him out of his office.” Mila admits, rounding the table so she can speak properly with Yuuri. The pair of them haven’t had time alone together since finding the trunk in Romanov’s office. “Thanks for getting through to him.”

“Glad to be helpful.”

She dips into a bow, stifling laughter at the strangled gasp that comes from the healer at the gesture. “You’ve been more than helpful. Not only did you save Kiev from a defeat on the battlefield, but you saved the lives of my closest friends. Thank you, Yuuri.”

“It really wasn’t anything special,” Yuuri protests.

Looking up, Mila tries to figure out if Yuuri is being humble or if he genuinely believes he didn’t do anything worth praising. His cheeks are flushed as he stares down at her, arms held out as if he had been waving at her to straighten from the bow. This time, she lets the laughter leave her mouth as she returns to her full height.

“One day you’ll learn to accept a genuine compliment.”

Yuuri smiles at her. “I suppose.”

“Still,” Mila muses, “you mentioned that your post as healer had no expiration date, but I suppose when you leave for Ayutthaya for real, that will be the end of it.”

The smile on Yuuri’s face slides away. “I suppose so.”

“Do you plan to leave when the snows melt? If you’re proactive, you’ll likely be well to sea by the time the armies clash again.”

“I hadn’t made any decisions on the matter yet.”

Quirking her eyebrow at the sudden ice in Yuuri’s voice, Mila prods—because that’s what she’s best at. “I just assumed you would want to be on your way as soon as possible. After all, it’s not as if you intend to stay. It will be easier for you if you go your way sooner rather than later.”

“Easier, huh,” Yuuri repeats, so soft that Mila’s sure she wasn’t supposed to hear it. What he does say to her is every bit as shocking. “Would I be able to go back into Romanov’s office?”

“Why?”

“If I leave before the snows melt, Kiev will need to defeat the mage on your own, and there may be knowledge in that office that only I’m capable of understanding. I’d like to help as best I can, while I can.”

Mila shrugs. Access to Romanov’s office isn’t something she can deny him at this point, especially not if Viktor has no reservations. “I’m unfortunately tied up with these types of meetings for the next several days. Would you like to visit the end of the week?”

“That day I was planning to go to my village. The injured soldiers need some supplies I can get there. Perhaps the day after?”

“Sure.”

Yuuri gives her an appreciative nod and turns to go.

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Mila calls, halting him in his steps. Yuuri turns back to face her, eyes hard at the use of his full name. Mila gives him a smile: cold and lazy and full of promise. “I like you, quite a bit, but my duty to my kingdom comes above all else. If you end up jeopardizing Kiev’s survival, you’ll become my enemy.”

Turning back to face her fully, Yuuri only meets Mila’s gaze for a breath. In that breath, she thinks the brown in his eyes vanishes, replaced for just an instant with molten gold. And, for the same instant, Mila is swamped with an overwhelming terror she can’t place, can’t rationalize other than to assume it to be some manifestation of Yuuri’s sheer power. She can’t investigate further because Yuuri is bowing, bent at the waist with his eyes fixed on his shoes as he replies, “on my word, I mean no harm to Kiev. This kingdom became my home, and there are people here that I want to live long and prosperous lives”

“As long as we have an understanding.”

Yuuri straightens, looking as innocent and harmless as he had when they first met properly. “Of course, Lady Babicheva.”

The mage leaves the room, and it suddenly feels much easier to breathe. It’s only now that Mila recognizes her chest is heaving, and she drops a hand onto the back of the nearby chair to steady herself.

As an ally, there’s no one Mila would rather have—for the good of the kingdom and for Viktor’s contentment—than Yuuri. As an enemy, she’d rather run into battle against the Atreides Empire alone than have to handle whatever might is stored within Yuuri’s slightly limbs.

However, she’s quite positive Yuuri doesn’t recognize the significance of her earlier word choice. There is a reason she did not mention the question of Yuuri ‘causing harm’. As much as Viktor must surely believe in his bones, Mila is under no delusion that Yuuri has intentions to hurt Kiev. She has no reason to believe he’ll ever knowingly cause the kingdom harm. But without any sense of his commitment to Kiev, with the overhanging possibility of Yuuri walking away from the kingdom at any given moment, his influence in court—over Viktor—is dangerous. A reliance on his knowledge and abilities is even more so.

Katsuki Yuuri may never have intentions to hurt Kiev, but Mila can’t shake the feeling that he has the potential to help bring Kiev to its ruin with just the crook of a finger.

 

* * *

 

Winter has well and truly settled over the Kievan capital. The snows that began as light flurries the day the army set out for their return trip to the capital have been replaced with snowfall so heavy that it blocks visibility much like a heavy night of fog. Yuuri certainly isn’t a stranger to the way the Kievan winter appears out of nowhere with a vengeance, but he’s never quite gotten used to it.

Passing the windows on his way to the courtyard, Yuuri pushes back a phantom shudder at the thought of being out in the snows for several hours. He almost wants to take back his decision to ride to his village and stay inside, where he’ll be warm and dry. While it’s a blessing that the day hasn’t been heralded by a sudden storm, the snow continues its steady fall in a way that will certainly make the two-hour ride closer to the three-hour mark.

As if reading his mind, Seung-gil points out, “You don’t have to go. If you just send a rider with a detailed list of what is needed they’ll manage.”

Shaking his head, Yuuri continues toward the courtyard. “When I rode for Ayutthaya I put a spell on my shop to keep strangers from getting in. If I send someone who doesn’t follow my unlocking instructions to the letter, they’ll be seriously injured. Besides, it will be nice to see my friends there.”

Seung-gil makes a curious noise. “If you were leaving Kiev for good, as it seemed to be implied, why did you keep your shop standing at all?”

“I… I don’t really know,” Yuuri admits. “It just didn’t feel right to empty it, and I spent so many years looking after the people in that village. As long as Minako was there to distribute what was needed, it felt better to leave supplies there, so I wasn’t just abandoning them all.”

It pulls a soft sigh from the man, and Yuuri glances over his shoulder to where Seung-gil is walking just behind him as they make their way through the castle. There’s a rueful smile on Seung-gil’s lips, and Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“You’re a good man, Yuuri.”

The words themselves are complimentary but Seung-gil says them like the admission pains him to make.

“I’m sorry?”

Clearly noticing his confusion, Seung-gil shrugs. “My orders from Prince Chulanont were to keep you safe here and during your journey back to Ayutthaya. They would be easier to carry out if you weren’t pre-disposed to sacrifice yourself for other’s good. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if you decided to go down in flames with the rest of this kingdom for fear of being guilty if you left them to their devices.”

There’s a lot to process in Seung-gil’s words, and they’re all said in his usual matter-of-fact way of speaking that forces Yuuri to pick apart the logic of the argument rather than getting lost in an emotional response.

He stops just before the doors to the courtyard to turn and face Seung-gil. “Kiev isn’t in such dire straits that the kingdom would collapse without me, and I’m not as good of a man as you make me out to be.”

Seung-gil runs his eyes over Yuuri’s face, considering the response. “Against the Atreides army alone it is possible Nikiforov and his retainers could handle themselves. You turned back to help because you knew they would fall against the mage, and that fact has not changed since we left the prince’s caravan. As for whether or not you’re a good man…” Seung-gil shrugs. “I have only seen the actions of the Katsuki Yuuri of the present. Whatever you did in your past that still bogs you down is information I am not privy to. However, it’s not the Yuuri of the past that I must deal with and, therefore, I do not make judgments against him. I doubt it’s in anyone else’s place to do so either.”

With that, Seung-gil pushes open the door, letting in a gust of cold wind that sends shivers down Yuuri’s spine. He motions Yuuri out into the winter air with a slight dip of his head, lips pressed into a thin line in a way that tells Yuuri the subject of conversation has been firmly closed.

Stifling a sigh at how unyielding the other man is in his opinions (and how deep Seung-gil’s words drive into his gut), Yuuri steps out into the castle courtyard, squinting against the bright sunlight.

Waiting in the courtyard are three horses: Yuuri’s and Seung-gil’s, in addition to the horse belonging to the extra guard Viktor insisted on Yuuri taking. When Yuuri agreed to take an extra guard, he had been anticipating a regular castle guard or perhaps one of the members of Viktor’s guard that now regularly keep watch outside his room.

He was not expecting to be greeted with Christophe’s mischievous grin.

“Ah, Yuuri! Right on time. Not that I expected anything less, of course,” Christophe says in greeting, winking down from his mount.

“Chris? What are you doing here?”

“Accompanying you on your trip. Though,” he glances over at Seung-gil, who swings into his saddle without acknowledging the guard captain, “I do believe the pair of you would have managed on your own. But…whatever helps our valiant king rest easier, I suppose.”

Mounting his own horse, Yuuri shakes his head. “I meant why are you the one going? Don’t you have more important things to do?”

“Keeping a dear friend of Viktor’s safe is of high importance,” Christophe replies. “Not to mention a day in your company is endlessly more amusing than keeping track of Viktor’s various meetings and appointments. My men can manage without me for a day.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to press the issue further but Christophe cuts him off with a laugh. “Yuuri, we can sit here and talk in circles until we’re frozen to the core, or we can be on our way. Which do you prefer?”

He hasn’t spent much time in Christophe’s company, but from the stories Viktor used to tell him when visiting the village, Yuuri’s quite confident that Christophe would talk in circles until they’re frozen to the core just to prove his point. Laughing slightly himself, Yuuri gives up on questioning the guard captain further and turns his horse toward the gates.

“Let’s get on the road, then.”

As Yuuri predicted, the journey to the village is much slower going than it usually is. After nearly three hours of shivering in his saddle (and internally bemoaning the fact that he decided to stay in Kiev for the winter rather than sailing for the tropical Ayutthaya), Yuuri almost cries in relief to see the houses of the village rise out of the forest.

Unlike the villages the army passed on its way south to battle, Yuuri’s one-time home remains untouched by the harbingers of war. So close to the base of the eastern mountain range there is no need for refugee housing for those fleeing the fighting along the main highways and, in the event Kiev does fall to the invaders, Yuuri imagines this village to be low on the list of priorities for the Atreides Empire to attack. In fact, the peacefulness of the village is almost enough to lull him into a sense of security—pushing away his concerns about the war even just for the moment.

Few people are out and about in the cold weather, but smoke billows from the chimney of Minako’s tavern.

After making sure their horses are settled in the guest stables, Yuuri leads the small group inside and almost melts in relief at the flood of warmth and comfort that immediately settles over him once they step into the tavern.

“Welcome!” a familiar voice calls from the bar. Minako’s back is turned from the door as she pours ale into a tankard.

Grinning, Yuuri pushes the hood of his cloak away from his face and calls back, “Tadaima, nee-san.”

Minako whirls around, only just managing not to slosh the drink onto the floor as she picks Yuuri out from across the room. She smiles at him, eyes crinkling as they only do when she’s genuinely pleased with something. Minako places the ale in front of her costumer before stepping out from behind the bar and crossing the room until she’s in front of Yuuri and pulling him into a hug.

“Okaeri, Yuu-kun,” the two words are murmured into his ear, and Yuuri’s hands squeeze into the fabric of Minako’s shirt as he takes a shuddering breath, pushing back tears at how safe he feels here.

She pulls back first, giving Yuuri a measuring look (no doubt searching for anything worth her concern). When she’s satisfied with what she sees, Minako nods at Yuuri and looks over his shoulder. Christophe gets a grin and a handshake. “Good to see you again, for all that you tried to keep me locked in an office during our last meeting.”

Christophe laughs. “Only doing my job. I can’t very well let just anyone storming through the castle halls.”

Minako hums, the noise low in her throat in a way that gives off the impression of being disapproving. Her attention shifts to the other man in the company. “And this is?”

“This is Seung-gil,” Yuuri says, waving toward the man. “He works for Phichit. Seung-gil, this is Minako.”

Seung-gil dips into a bow. “An honor to meet you, Okukawa-san. His Highness speaks highly of you.”

Interest glints in Minako’s gaze as she takes in the man and Yuuri quickly speaks again, aware that Minako is likely to bombard Seung-gil with half-a-dozen questions if given the chance. Turning to the older woman, Yuuri says, “We can’t stay too long, but can we get something warm before we set back off?”

“Off where?”

“I want to visit the Nishigoris and check on the triplets, but we’re mostly here to pick up some supplies from my shop before heading back to the palace.”

Minako doesn’t reply right away, her gaze fixed on Yuuri far too long for his comfort. Eventually, she nods at the other men. “Take a seat wherever, the food will be right out. Not you, Yuuri.” Yuuri freezes in place, having just turned to do as she indicated. “I don’t have extra hands; can you help me carry the food out?”

Resigned to what will likely be a thorough grilling, Yuuri gives Christophe and Seung-gil a reassuring smile before saying, “Sure.”

As Christophe and Seung-gil make their way to a table, Yuuri follows Minako out of the main serving room and into the kitchens, waving in greeting to the pair of cooks at work. Instead of asking Yuuri to do any work, Minako motions him to the kitchen stool in the corner of the room as she gives a couple of orders to the cooks before she switches to their native tongue.

“So…what happened to going to Ayutthaya?” she asks.

Yuuri winces at the reminder that the last Minako had heard from him he was setting off with Phichit’s caravan. Speaking quickly (and softly, despite knowing none of the other staff will understand him) Yuuri explains why he turned back for Kiev and what had happened to him since making that decision. Minako listens in silence, eyes never wavering from Yuuri’s face as he talks. When Yuuri finishes his explanation, she holds out a hand in a silent demand.

Jaw clenching, Yuuri holds out his right hand for inspection, not able to watch Minako’s face as she turns his hand over in her own and runs her fingers over the blackened tips of his fingers.

When she finally speaks, Minako asks, “What are you going to do?”

Having thoroughly expected a long-winded lecture on carelessness, Yuuri’s eyes flick back up to Minako’s, wide in bewilderment.

At his expression, Minako lets out a tutting noise. “You’re an adult, Yuuri. Besides, it’s not as if you listened to any of my other advice when it comes to Viktor. So?”

“What am I going to do?” Yuuri repeats to himself. Shaking his head, Yuuri replies, “I don’t know. I’m just trying to help the soldiers that got hurt for now.”

“If you keep doing things ‘for now’ you’re going to get swept up into whatever is coming next. Whatever happens will be easier to bear if you made some sort of active decision that got you there.”

Yuuri sighs, “I’m not sure how many more people I want to hurt.”

Minako’s expression softens and she murmurs, “You’re Hiroko’s son, through and through.” Arms crossed over her chest, Minako drums her fingers on her arms, clearly thinking about her next words before she says, “do you love that boy, Yuuri?”

The question comes as a shock, and Yuuri sits bolt upright in his seat. “Nee-san!”

“It’s not a ridiculous question, don’t look at me like that. You’ve experienced concerns over the morality of your actions before, so I’m trying to figure out what makes this situation so difficult for you to work through. As far as I know…you’ve never been in love before.” Yuuri’s scandalized look doesn’t leave his face and Minako rolls her eyes. “Fine, let’s consider it a different way, if this was Ayutthaya would you just leave Phichit to handle the invaders?”

“Of course not. But Phichit would never leave me to fend for myself either.”

“And Viktor would?”

Yuuri slumps down in his seat. “I don’t really know what Viktor would do.”

Pursing her lips, Minako turns to accept three plates from one of the cooks, placing them down on the counter between herself and Yuuri as she grabs utensils. “It’s clear that boy is important to you; you need to decide soon how important. What are you willing to give up for him? What are you not willing to give up for him? One of those answers will weigh heavier than the other and you’ll have to decide if it’s worth your while to stay by his side or to move on.”

“That’s a lot to consider at once,” Yuuri muses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Well, what would you like to do? If there were no consequences to your actions, what path would make you happiest? Take it from there.” Minako hands two plates to Yuuri. “But, whatever choice you make, please take care of yourself, Yuuri.”

Letting a wry smile cross his face Yuuri teases, “What happened to me being an adult?”

“Even adults need reminders every now and then, smart ass,” she retorts without batting an eyelash. “Let’s feed your friends and you can catch me up on happier things before you go.”

 

* * *

 

When Yuuri, Seung-gil, and Christophe make it back to the palace it’s well into the afternoon. They go their separate ways in the courtyard—Christophe heading to the barracks for Viktor’s guard while Yuuri hands the reins of his horse to a waiting hostler with a murmured word of thanks. A few supplies brought from Yuuri’s old shop not needed in the infirmary are entrusted to Seung-gil before Yuuri rushes into the castle alone, the warmth of braziers just inside the palace entryway more than welcome after the frigid chill of the hour-long ride from Minako’s tavern to the capital.

“Sir Katsuki, welcome back!” A maid pauses to dip her head in an informal bow, her hands full of linens. “Do you have anything that needs to go to your chambers? I can call someone to help.”

Shaking his head, Yuuri says, “It’s fine, I already sent it with someone. Don’t let me keep you.”

She gives him a friendly smile and dips her head again before continuing on her way, jogging to catch up with another pair of maids just down the corridor. Watching her go, Yuuri tries to wrap his mind around when living in the royal palace started to feel normal.

It’s not that he ever felt out of place, not even when he first arrived. But when he had been caring for Isidora, Yuuri had been isolated to the royal wing, hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to any of the castle’s other inhabitants. Now, as he walks down the halls heading to the infirmary, he’s greeted as he walks. Not just by servants who have grown used to seeing him wander the halls, but by castle guards and city soldiers, by scribes and tailors, even by a noble or two.

Sometime between arriving in the castle on the back of Viktor’s horse in the middle of the night and now, Yuuri has become a regular member of palace life. He has become someone whose name is known by everyone he passes.

The notoriety is terrifying. For every handful of smiles sent in his direction, Yuuri can hear others whispering his name with suspicion. Some people he passes won’t make eye contact with him and instead scurry by with their heads down.

Between his flashy display at the banquet hall and word of what happened in the battle just weeks behind them, Yuuri has grown not just in notoriety for some but in infamy. The idea of the sort of power coursing through his veins is, understandably, unnerving for many, and Yuuri can feel their glares on his back as he passes.

After a week back in the castle, the infirmary has finally mellowed down. The frantic energy of trying to save soldiers on the brink of death has left: the soldiers in question either steadily on the path to recovery or already given burials with honors.

“You’re back early.”

Yuuri turns to smile at the young woman mixing herbs together at a nearby table. Having traveled inland from closer to the coast, Tasha petitioned Yuuri for a position in the infirmary immediately upon arriving at the palace. And, when Yuuri told her that it wasn’t really his place to grant a position—given that he didn’t run the infirmary—she went straight to the head doctor and was granted a position the next day.

“Chris rode as my guard and I didn’t want to keep him from the castle for too long,” Yuuri explains.

Tasha tilts her head curiously. “Chris?”

Yuuri still forgets that his closest friends in the castle are largely not known so casually. Putting down the saddlebags of supplies, he amends, “Sir Christophe, of the King’s Guard.”

She laughs. “You’ve friends in high places, Master Katsuki. What did you bring us?”

Pulling out the various herbs and charms, Yuuri waves over the other unoccupied nurses to explain how each item is properly used and cared for. Fielding clever questions about the items brings no small amount of delight bubbling in his chest, and Yuuri grins at the small group.

Minako had asked him to consider what makes him happy, what he’d like to do if there were no consequences to his decision. Yuuri thinks he’d quite like to do this for the rest of life, to share his knowledge of healing to people who were passionate about helping others.

“These charms need to have their spells refreshed after about twenty uses or so,” Yuuri says, motioning at a pair. “With the base enchantment I used on them, a mage of any caliber should be able to refresh it without trouble.”

A veteran nurse picks up one of the charms, considering it. “It has been a long time since the infirmary had the aid of magic in our work. Lord Romanov didn’t have much healing background.” Yuuri nods. He’s more than aware of that. The nurse looks back at him with sharp eyes. “It would be a boon if his majesty appointed you the new mage.”

“I’m not sure if that would be-” Yuuri begins.

An apprentice cuts him off, eyes shining as he looks up at Yuuri. “There’s so much Kiev could learn from you as the Royal Mage, Master Katsuki!”

“Well…” Yuuri shrugs helplessly. “With half the council probably terrified of me, there’s not much hope for it.”

“Stupid,” Tasha mutters.

Yuuri pushes them back on topic, finishing his explanations and finding the best place to store the new additions to the infirmary. He takes several minutes to check in on some of the patients whose recoveries he is personally overseeing—pleased to find them doing well—before leaving the infirmary with a wave.

As he makes his way toward his chambers, Yuuri tries to not to dwell on the subject of the ‘royal mage’. He’s more than aware that, if he doesn’t take the position, it’s likely the position will remain unfilled given the decline of mage society. Yuuri’s also fairly confident that Viktor would appoint him if given any indication Yuuri wants the job, protests from the council be damned.

But tying himself to this court, taking on that sort of title with all the responsibilities and duties that come with it, just the thought makes Yuuri nauseous.

After abandoning his village and protecting his own skin instead of helping other mages in desperate times, Yuuri has no right to step into such a leadership role now. Yuuri isn’t even sure he knows how.

Lost in his thoughts, Yuuri doesn’t realize he’s taken a wrong turn until he nearly bumps into a knight walking in the opposite direction. Rushing to apologize, Yuuri pauses to look at his surroundings, frowning at the fact that he doesn’t recognize the wing he’s in.

“Sorry, but I think I got lost. Where are we?”

The knight gives him an odd look, considering Yuuri for a moment before saying, “Practice courts are on either side, we’re close to the training yard.”

Ah, well that explains why Yuuri doesn’t remember being in this area before.

“Could you give me directions? Anything near the center of the castle will be helpful.”

There’s another pause before the knight slowly nods. “Give me one second to grab my gear and I can walk you out.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, gratefully.

A hand is waved in the air, as if it’s no trouble for the knight, and he steps into a side door. Alone in the corridor, Yuuri shifts. Something about the atmosphere around him makes him uneasy. The stares that greet him are more hostile than they ever are in any other wing in the palace, and Yuuri finds himself wondering if he can trace his steps back on his own or if it would just get him more lost.

“Sorry about that,” the knight says, reappearing. “Are you heading to the infirmary? It’s this way.”

“I just left, actually. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and took a wrong turn at some point,” Yuuri replies, falling into step with the knight.

“Funny to see a knight looking so out of place in the practice halls.” The word ‘knight’ twists as it leaves the other man’s mouth and Yuuri’s stomach churns with it.

Giving a small shrug, Yuuri mumbles, “It’s just honorary. Knights like you and the others worked hard for the title.”

“We did, as did His Majesty,” the knight’s voice cold as they take another turn, straight into a dead end. Standing there, evidently waiting for them, is a handful of other knights, faces all as harsh as the man’s voice. “Which is why a conniving witch like you doesn’t deserve the title.”

Eyes widening, Yuuri whirls around, trying to slip past the knight. A hand grabs his arm and yanks Yuuri backward; he stumbles and loses his footing, sprawling on his back with a wince at the harsh fall. Footsteps sound all around him and Yuuri frantically searches for any sign of sympathy in the glares directed down at him as he tries to quiet his rapidly pounding heart.

Pushing himself into a seat, Yuuri winces at how his voice trembles as he tries to reason with them. “I don’t mean any disrespect to you or your work. Without knights like you, Kiev would be without hope.”

Someone laughs. “Is that silver tongue how you got your hooks into the king? It won’t work on us.”

“No! It’s not-” a boot collides with Yuuri’s gut and the rest of his sentence dies as an explosive gasp rips from his mouth.

Doubling over in pain, Yuuri tries to drown out the resulting laughter all around him and focus through the fire in his stomach. His magic swirls under his skin, itching to react to the danger, and Yuuri desperately tries to keep control. After killing so many during the battle, he’s not sure his control over that newfound power is solid enough to keep from killing any of his attackers if he launches so much as one attack spell. And even though he could use his magic to neutralize all the knights in an instant, attacking them in the palace will only fuel the fear and resentment already present against magic users.

There has to be a way out that doesn’t involve his magic.

Pushing himself onto his knees, Yuuri’s hand brushes over the top of his right boot, where he keeps a dagger stored at all times. He hesitates to reach for it: pulling out a knife is an escalation, would encourage those around him to draw their swords. While Yuuri is decent with his blade, he’s not a fighter. All he knows how to do is dive for a killing blow and that’s just going to make things worse. Abandoning the idea of the dagger, Yuuri gets back on his feet, hands held up in a placating gesture.

“I didn’t do anything to Viktor, I just wanted to keep him safe.”

A fist crashes into his face, sending Yuuri flying back until he hits a wall. His entire body is alight with agony. Yuuri’s hands fly up to cover his eye as tears of pain well up, threatening to fall. The laughter is cacophonous now.

“What’s wrong, Sir Katsuki? Can’t use your devil’s magic to roast us alive?” One taunts as they close in on him, blocking all light, blocking any chance of escape as they crowd Yuuri against the wall.

Hands reach out for him, and Yuuri bites back a whimper of fear, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t resist they’ll get tired of him soon.

“Oi! Get off him!” The shout seems to come from far away and suddenly there’s a flood of light as one of Yuuri’s attackers is pulled away from the group.

A dull ‘crunch’ reaches Yuuri’s senses and he blinks his eyes open in time to see Yurio shake out his wrist and pivot, elbow ramming into the throat of another one of Yuuri’s attackers. All attention shifts from Yuuri to focus on the squire who is, quite clearly, the bigger threat at the moment and Yuuri finds himself sliding to the floor, numb as he watches.

Yurio throws himself into the fight with abandon, sizing up the taller and older men with a look akin to disdain as he moves with a dancer’s grace. It’s only now that Yuuri recognizes the amount of talent it must take to be chosen as the personal squire to the kingdom’s best fighter. For all that Yurio is shorter and slighter than all his opponents, there’s a ferocity to his movements that catch the others off-guard.

“Little brat! You may be the king’s squire, but you should know your place not to attack a knight!” One man snarls, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.

Another hand covers the one on the sword and Yuuri follows the line of toned muscle to a face that looks almost bored with the whole affair. Dark brown eyes barely give the knight a glance before a fist is slamming into the older man’s cheek, knocking him off his feet to collapse in a heap on the floor.

“Took you long enough!” Yurio shouts from in-between another pair as his knee rams up into someone’s groin. “Were you admiring that scene?”

“You didn’t give me any warning when you ran off,” the newcomer replies calmly, tossing another over his hip.

“Whatever.”

There’s no verbal admission of defeat, but one second Yuuri is watching a brawl among noblemen and the next he’s left alone with his two saviors, the sounds of scampering footsteps echoing in the distance as the men run off. Yurio scowls at the men’s retreating backs, shaking his right hand out as he moves over to where Yuuri is still slumped against the wall.

“Fucking bastards,” Yurio mutters. “My knuckles are going to be bruised for days and they run as soon as they don’t outnumber us 8-to-1.”

“Wish we had one unconscious, so they can be held accountable,” the other says.

Yurio rolls his eyes. “Viktor probably has Mila watching him. They’ll have names. Why didn’t you fight back?”

The question is directed down, at Yuuri, and he blinks up at the two younger men in confusion for several seconds before his brain processes. Shifting so he’s in an actual seated position, Yuuri mumbles, “If I attacked them with magic then they win. Besides…” he trails off, glancing down at his marked hand. He closes it into a fist to hide the black on his fingertips—a visible indication of the atrocity he committed. “There’s only so many times I can hurt people with my magic without giving into the hatred.”

It pulls a snort of derision from the squire, but Yurio drops down to his level, eyes scanning Yuuri’s face carefully. “You took a beating. They might have killed you.”

“I… I know.”

Rolling his eyes again, Yurio glances over his shoulder. “Help me get him to his room? We can send a doctor there in a bit.”

The man nods, giving Yuuri a small smile. “I’m Otabek, by the way. I’m set to be knighted during the Yule week. Thank you for saving my life during the battle.”

At the mention, Yuuri drops the man’s gaze. “Everyone was doing their part for the kingdom to survive.” He glances back up to give Otabek a friendly nod, forcing a smile onto his face. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Can you stand?” Otabek asks, offering a hand down.

Yuuri’s legs feel like jelly, though he’s sure it’s more to do with his shock than any kind of physical condition. Reaching out, he clasps Otabek’s forearm and lets the squire haul him to his feet (which Otabek does with seemingly little effort). Yurio hovers beside him, making acerbic comments even as he watches with a hawk’s eye to make sure Yuuri doesn’t collapse.

“What kind of idiots attack someone so obviously in the king’s favor?” Yurio mutters as they begin the walk to Yuuri’s chambers. “What do they think Viktor would’ve done if they killed you? Reward them?”

Yuuri shrugs. “They thought I might be controlling him, or something. If that’s true I suppose they would get a reward for freeing him from a curse.”

“You can’t even do that!” Yurio snaps. There’s a moment of silence, and then the younger man asks, “you can’t do that, right?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Idiots.”

“Squire Plisetsky!” The shout makes the trio pause, glancing behind themselves to see a man dressed in plain black clothing jogging toward them. He stops just outside of touching distance and sweeps a quick bow. “I’m in service to Lady Babicheva.”

Yurio snorts and looks at Otabek. “Told you.”

Otabek raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you were wrong.”

“Can we walk and talk?” Yurio asks the man, waving a hand at Yuuri. “He’s about ready to collapse.”

“As my lord wishes.”

Yurio urges Otabek and Yuuri to keep moving, muttering something under his breath about Mila’s ‘overly stuffy spies’. As they continue their way down the palace corridors to Yuuri’s room, the man keeps in pace with Yurio, speaking so softly that Yuuri can’t even hear their conversation despite being mere paces in front of them.

By the time they reach Yuuri’s room, the man has vanished back into the sea of servants and workers that make up the palace corridors. As Otabek helps Yuuri to a seat, Yurio makes quick work of building a fire in the hearth. “Mila will probably come around in an hour or so to get your account of what happened. I’ll send for a nurse or something.”

Shaking his head, Yuuri gives Yurio a grateful smile. “I’ll be fine, I can look after myself and the injuries aren’t too bad.”

Yurio scowls at him. “Were you looking after yourself when you let them attack you?”

“Yuri, leave it be,” Otabek cuts in, voice soft but without give.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Yurio points a finger straight at Yuuri’s chest. “I won’t always be there to bail you out, storyteller. Either you’re a good enough mage to stand up for yourself without killing them or you’re still a fucking scam. Get some rest before Viktor has a damn apoplexy.”

Yurio stalks toward the door, grabbing Otabek by the arm and dragging the older boy with him. Yuuri blinks at the space where Yurio had been just a second prior, the harsh words ringing through his head with enough truth to make Yuuri feel a bit sheepish for his passiveness. Twisting in his chair so he can look at the retreating squires, Yuuri calls out.

“Yuri.” Blonde hair tosses as Yurio looks over his shoulder to pin Yuuri with a dry, expectant, look. Yuuri smiles. “Thank you.”

Color blooms high on Yurio’s cheeks and he looks away. “Whatever. Just make sure you’re not laid up when it’s time for our lesson.”

Smile widening, Yuuri relaxes into his seat and waves the two squires out of his room.

 

* * *

 

Three clear knocks on the door have Yuuri standing up immediately, dropping the cool rag he had been cradling against his puffy eye and rushing toward the door. It’s been nearly an hour since Yurio and Otabek left and Yuuri is anxious to meet with Mila and put the day firmly behind him (preferably in favor of several long hours of sleep).

Swinging the door open, Yuuri is met not by the noblewoman he was expecting but rather by Viktor, dressed in the kind of finery that indicates he spent his day in court meetings.

“Viktor?”

“Mila told me what happened,” Viktor says, stepping into the room. “Are you okay?”

Nodding, Yuuri rushes to reassure him. “I’m fine thanks to Yurio and his friend Otabek.”

Viktor’s eyes rove Yuuri's face, picking out scratches and the beginnings of a bruise around Yuuri’s eye. A flash of rage surprises Yuuri, and he watches with wide eyes as Viktor's jaw tightens and he turns, stepping back into the hallway to speak to one of the guards.

Still slightly dazed, Yuuri only picks out a snippet of what he says.

“...names from Lady Babicheva…”

Just as abruptly as he walked out, Viktor slips back in the open door, fire gone from his eyes and a gentle smile on his face.

“Yuuri, I'm so sorry.”

Shaking his head, Yuuri replies, “I knew people would be scared of me, it's not your fault.”

“It happened within my walls. This is my home and you should be safe here.”

“Viktor, it's fine.”

Fingers brush the puffy skin under Yuuri's eye, the gentle touch such a stark contrast to the fist that sent Yuuri reeling into the wall that he feels frozen in place, breath shallow as he watches another flicker of rage cross blue eyes before vanishing behind sorrow.

“It's not fine,” Viktor murmurs, “and it's never going to happen again. On my word as-” he cuts off, a rueful smile curling onto his lips. “I suppose you still won't take my word as king.”

Moving slowly, so as not to dislodge the hand trailing down to cup his cheek, Yuuri shakes his head and somehow manages to say, “No, I won't.”

“Then, on my word as Viktor.” His eyes widen, and Viktor’s hand vanishes suddenly as the taller man steps around Yuuri and to the wardrobe. “Speaking of promises...put this on.”

One of Yuuri's winter cloaks is held aloft, and Yuuri takes it with a frown. “Why?’

“You get cold easily,” Viktor says.

“Are we going outside?”

“Yes, where are your boots?”

Yuuri points and Viktor picks them up, motioning Yuuri into a seat. Sitting down, Yuuri asks, “Don't you have things to do?”

“It’s fine. There’s only so much preparation we can do for the end of the snows and traditionally the council has the last two weeks of the year free from session.” He kneels in front of Yuuri, reaching around to hold the back of Yuuri's calf.

Realizing what Viktor intends to do, Yuuri yanks his leg away, cheeks flaming hot. “I can do that. If someone saw you...you're the king.”

Tilting his head, bangs falling away from his face, Viktor points out, “You pick the oddest times to care about my title.”

“...I can do it myself.”

With a shrug, Viktor gets to his feet, handing Yuuri his boots. Keeping his face down—and trying to will his flush away—Yuuri rapidly pulls on his boots and stands.

He's completely unprepared for the feeling of fingers curling around his wrist—the warmth of Viktor's hand making him too hot on top of the cloak and braziers. Before he can protest, Viktor pulls him forward and out of the room, walking so briskly that it's all Yuuri can do to keep up and not trip over his own feet.

Yuuri is tugged through the halls of the palace, Viktor seemingly oblivious to the way the servants and other palace dwellers pause to watch them rush past with curious looks. It’s been some time since Yuuri was in the royal wing of the castle, but he recognizes the turns Viktor takes between his room and their destination, averting his gaze from the suite that once belonged to the kingdom’s queen.

A pair of guards stand outside the room across the hall and a few steps down from the queen’s chambers, and they nod at Viktor as he pushes open the door to reveal, what Yuuri assumes to be, Viktor’s own suite of rooms.

And it’s only now that Yuuri realizes he’s never actually been inside of Viktor’s rooms. The grip around his arm vanishes as Viktor disappears through a side door, leaving Yuuri to stare around the main sitting room.

It’s quite similar to Isidora’s: luxurious seats circle a low table no doubt meant for teas or informal meetings. However, where the queen’s walls were adorned with masterful paintings and the occasional map—breaking up the blank spaces between the large windows overlooking the gardens—Viktor’s sitting room is more reminiscent of a study or even a library. On the walls to either side of the center table, large bookshelves are crammed to their brim, tomes shoved sideways or even diagonal to try and fit into spaces too small for them. Near the door to the balcony, Yuuri sees a large telescope on a stand, charts and diagrams splayed on the table next to it.

He even, to no small degree of amusement, notices a few books on magic stacked on the corner of the low table in the center of the room. Curious, Yuuri steps further into the room and picks up the topmost book, snorting when he reads the title. It appears that Viktor’s lack of knowledge regarding mages cannot be blamed on a lack of effort but on a lack of credible resources.

When Viktor reemerges from wherever he vanished to (now also dressed for the outdoors), Yuuri holds up the book, unable to keep the bemused smile from his face. “Really?”

Viktor shrugs. “I started with the more legitimate books, but I was running out of options.”

“And what have you learned from…” Yuuri glances at the cover. “ _Shadow Walkers: Mages and their Dark Ways_?”

“I’ve learned that there used to be a very different quality standard for what was accepted into the royal library,” Viktor replies, grinning, “I’m finished with it, but I’m more than happy to lend it to you.”

Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Yuuri puts the book back down. “I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse that gracious offer.”

“Well, in that case, let’s go,” Viktor says, reaching for Yuuri.

This time, Yuuri meets him halfway, letting his fingers tangle with Viktor’s as the other man pulls him out of the room and back into the corridors. There’s still a briskness to Viktor’s speed that Yuuri struggles to keep up with, but now that he’s prepared for it he realizes the speed is from excitement more than anything else, and it’s infectious.

He has no idea what’s going on, or where they’re going, or what’s in the package Viktor has stored underneath his other arm, and Yuuri honestly couldn’t care. Even though they’re racing through the corridors of the castle, even though every eye watches them pass because Viktor is the _king_ and Yuuri a ‘ferocious’ mage, it feels just like they’re Yuuri and Viktor again, like they were when they first met.

Even when Viktor tugs Yuuri through a side door that leads him out into the Kievan winter, Yuuri’s smile doesn’t falter. Pulling his cloak around his body tighter, Yuuri picks up his pace so that he and Viktor are practically jogging through the snow.

They walk through a gate near the back of the castle and out into the wilderness, but no one follows.

Noticing Yuuri’s curious look at the guards that watch them pass, Viktor explains, “this is technically still palace grounds. Patrols come through regularly, but no one uses it much now that hunting season is over.”

“But your bodyguards don’t follow you?” Yuuri asks.

With a shrug, Viktor says, “They do sometimes, but Chris probably told them that I’m fine if I’m with you.” He winks at Yuuri. “You’re my bodyguard now, so I’m in your care.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Yuuri counters, “I thought you were supposed to be protecting me while we were in the capital?”

Viktor laughs, and tugs on Yuuri’s arm with a spurt of strength that he isn’t prepared for. Stumbling forward, Yuuri squeaks as he’s swung around to face Viktor and they’re brought to a standstill. Color sits high on Viktor’s cheeks, his eyes sparkle in the brightness of the snow-covered forest and the smile he directs down at Yuuri is so bright that Yuuri almost can’t bear to look at it.

“We’ll protect each other then. Simple.” Viktor’s words leave his mouth with wisps of smoke in the cold air. “But, for now, we’re going to have fun.”

“Fun?”

Letting go of Yuuri’s hand, Viktor shifts his hold on the package so it’s in-between them. “I wanted to give this to you for Yule, but now feels like the right time.” He pushes the package into Yuuri’s grip with an expectant smile. “As promised.”

Tilting his head, Yuuri wracks his brain, trying to think when he ever received a promise of ‘fun’ from Viktor. There are no answers forthcoming on Viktor’s face, only a small smile as if the other man is in on a secret and waiting for Yuuri to join him. With no other option, Yuuri reaches out and unties the knot on top of the parcel, letting the blanket that covered it fall to either side to drape over Viktor’s arm.

He lifts the lid of the box away and blinks down at what’s inside. Four lengths of gleaming steel sit in the box, connected to what look to be complicated leather harnesses.

Yuuri looks back up at Viktor, thoroughly confused. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ll show you.” Viktor nods his head to the right, and Yuuri follows the direction of the motion to see a frozen pond.

Just a few steps to Yuuri’s right is a bench, blissfully free of snow, and Viktor heads to it, setting the box to one side and waving Yuuri over to join him.

“Sit down,” Viktor says, picking up one length of steel.

Yuuri does as told, surprised to feel a gentle warmth radiating from the bench. He looks down at the wood, peering over the tops of his glasses frames to pick out the careful swirls of a magic spell. The signature of the magic is familiar though difficult to place, as if Yuuri was looking at a distorted reflection.

“My mother asked the royal mage to spell this when I was a kid,” Viktor says, picking up one of Yuuri’s boots and lining the steel up underneath the sole. Leather gets secured over his toes, across the top of his foot, and around the heel until it feels like the steel won’t budge. As he works, Viktor explains, “I would probably ask mother to come here once a week once the snows started. It was my favorite thing to do but it’s hard to get the boots right without a seat. Sitting in snow all the time is a great way to be sick all winter, so we got this heated bench. It’s probably been five or six years since the spell was freshened up, though.”

“The royal mage when you were a kid?” Yuuri murmurs, staring at the bench with increased scrutiny.

Viktor hums in confirmation, letting go of one foot to reach for Yuuri’s other boot and repeat the process. “Such an innocent spell, isn’t it? Considering who the mage became, you’d expect it to have been poisoning me or something.” Viktor pauses, looking up at Yuuri. “It _hasn’t_ been poisoning me, right?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “It just gives off warmth, nothing more.”

“That’s a relief.” Viktor finishes with Yuuri’s feet and gets up, taking a seat next to him and reaching for the next length of steel. “And I suppose the spell will fade in a year or two anyway.”

“Probably.” Yuuri agrees, tearing his gaze away from the bench to look down at his boots, turning them to the side to try and figure out the purpose of the contraption. “How do we walk on these?”

Viktor chuckles, “Slowly, and with great difficulty. They’re not meant for walking.”

“What are they meant for?”

Viktor handles his boots much quicker, getting to his feet with a grin and turning to help Yuuri onto his. “The ice.”

“The ice?” Yuuri repeats, letting Viktor help him as he carefully takes a few steps forward, toward the pond. His eyes flick to the frozen water and widen. “Ice skating?”

Viktor’s grin grows, stretching from ear to ear as he nods enthusiastically. “I promised that, when you visited me in Kiev, I would take you ice skating. Though, technically I promised a big lake. The lake is probably crowded, and I thought you might like the quiet here more.”

“I don’t remember how.”

“I’ll teach you.” Viktor steps onto the ice. “And I still won’t let you fall.”

Looking down at the ice, Yuuri frowns at it. Jumping onto it when he was a kid and relatively fearless was much different than doing it now. But, somehow, the earnest tone in Viktor’s voice sounds exactly the same as he remembers it from back then, and Yuuri can’t find it in himself to doubt what Viktor says.

Tentatively, he steps onto the ice and immediately loses his balance.

As promised, Viktor catches him, holding Yuuri away from the ground with a breathless laugh. “It’s a little different from what we did back then, with the skates instead of just our shoes.”

Yuuri lets out a huff. “Just a ‘little’ different?”

“Come on, Yuuri, you can do it,” Viktor urges.

He slides away from Yuuri just far enough that Yuuri can’t rely on him for balance, but doesn’t let go of Yuuri’s hands. With a reassuring smile, Viktor skates one step backward, pulling Yuuri with him as he begins a slow circle of the ice. At first, Yuuri focuses on not falling, his brows ruffled in concentration as he wobbles slightly, trying to get used to the sensation of his weight resting on the strips of steel.

After one rotation, Yuuri tentatively begins to push forward with his own momentum until his eyes widen and he looks back up from the ice to Viktor. “I’m skating!”

Viktor grins. “You’re a natural.”

With a laugh of his own, Yuuri picks up his speed just a little bit, skating around and around the ice until Viktor lets their hands slide apart and he’s skating without assistance. Viktor hovers nearby for several more rotations, giving advice and encouragement until he breaks away to skate faster, twirling through the center of the ice.

For a moment, Yuuri sees long silver hair flowing around Viktor’s body like a halo of moonlight. He can hear higher-pitched laughter as the young prince dances on ice in the middle of the summer, secluded in the most personal sanctuary Yuuri has ever had. Blinking the image away he gasps when, just for a breath, both of Viktor’s skates leave the ice and he’s airborne, making half a revolution before returning to the ice.

Excited, Yuuri turns himself away from the safe perimeter of ice he’s stuck to and skates toward Viktor. “That was amazing!”

“I’m out of practice,” Viktor replies, “I remember I wanted to show you something incredible.”

“Viktor!” At Yuuri’s shout, Viktor turns to face him. Blue eyes widen comically large when he realizes Yuuri is coming at him, full-speed. “How do I slow down?”

Instead of answering, Viktor lets out a loud laugh and holds his arms out, shifting his weight on the ice. With no other choice, Yuuri skates straight into him, breath leaving his lungs in a gasp at the impact before Viktor’s arms close around him and the taller man digs a skate into the ice. They twirl around before coming to a halt near the center of the pond, Viktor’s laugh still ringing over the pounding of Yuuri’s heart.

Chest heaving, Yuuri tries to catch his breath. Around them, snow has started lightly falling. He can feel the start of numbness creeping into the tips of his ears and his nose after an hour outdoors.

The sunlight is beginning to wane; Yuuri realizes they should go inside soon, but he doesn’t want to leave the little oasis of the frozen pond.

Blinking up at Viktor, Yuuri finds it suddenly much harder to breathe. Viktor looks almost ethereal in the setting sunlight, snowflakes caught on long silvery lashes as he smiles down at Yuuri. There’s a lightness to Viktor that Yuuri hasn’t seen in a while, thinks he might not have seen since first being asked to come to the palace. It’s like, for however long they stay on the ice, all the weights and worries of King Nikiforov have been thrown aside, letting Viktor just be himself.

Happy is a good look on Viktor.

What would have to happen for it to grace Viktor’s face more often?

The arms around Yuuri’s waist are solid, supporting most of his weight and keeping him pressed against Viktor’s chest (not that Yuuri has any inclination to increase the space between them). His fingers curl in the fabric of Viktor’s cloak and, unbidden, the conversation he had with Minako rises to mind.

_It’s clear that boy is important to you; you need to decide soon how important. What are you willing to give up for him? What are you not willing to give up for him? One of those answers will weigh heavier than the other and you’ll have to decide if it’s worth your while to stay by his side or to move on._

“Yuuri,” Viktor sounds almost as breathless as Yuuri feels. Blinking up at him, Yuuri shoves Minako’s ominous words aside to focus on Viktor. “I’m sorry.”

An apology is certainly not what Yuuri expected to hear, and he frowns. “Sorry?”

The grip on his waist tightens for just a moment before one hand shifts, reaching up to brush under the skin of Yuuri’s eye. “You’ve done so much for Kiev and it’s been rewarded with distrust and violence. I thought…I thought that, maybe, I could build an environment here where you could feel safe, but I can’t even do that in my own palace.”

“A couple of jumpy knights don’t define you, Viktor.”

Viktor tilts his head back, letting out a huff of air before he speaks again, voice wry. “To think you won’t even let me apologize. You might be the most stubborn person I’ve ever met.”

“I would say the same about you,” Yuuri replies, laughing slightly.

Looking back down at him, Viktor trails his hand back, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind Yuuri’s ear. “Is it unbearably selfish of me to wish the snows would never thaw?”

“If that’s what it takes to keep the Atreides army at bay then I don’t think-” Yuuri cuts off at the sound of Viktor’s laughter.

Shaking his head, the other man says, “That’s not why, though I’d be grateful if that did occur.”

“Then why?”

“Even though you’ve left once before, I’m not quite ready for you to leave again. Though, I’m not sure what it will take for me to be ready.”

Eyes widening in understanding, Yuuri covers Viktor’s hand with his own, pulling it away from his face to lace their fingers together. “I thought we were supposed to be having fun.”

“We are but-”

“Then enjoy this, Viktor. Winter just began, there’s no need to worry about any of that for the time being,” Yuuri says, relieved his voice is much more confident on the matter than his feelings.

“I always enjoy spending time with you. But, can I ask a different selfish question?”

Tilting his head, Yuuri narrows his eyes in suspicion, wondering if Viktor plans to showcase his stubborn streak by forcing them to talk around the issue until all the sunlight fades around them. “Perhaps.”

“Yuuri…may I kiss you?”

Yuuri thinks his heart might have stopped. Staring up at Viktor, his eyes scan the taller man’s face, looking for an indication of a jest or a prank and finding none. Instead, he takes in the soft smile dancing around Viktor’s mouth and the flicker of hesitation in Viktor’s gaze—as if Viktor isn’t confident how his request will be taken.

Squeezing Viktor’s hand to ground himself, Yuuri nods and feels his butterflies light in his stomach at how Viktor’s smile seems to get even softer at his response. Yuuri’s chest feels dangerously tight and he thinks he might be dreaming this whole thing up but doesn’t want to wake up anytime soon.

When Viktor presses his lips to Yuuri they’re soft and gentle and hesitant in a way that Yuuri wouldn’t normally equate with ‘Viktor’. The touch is there and gone too quickly, blue eyes scanning Yuuri’s face, searching for something that they must find because all at once Viktor is pressing back into another kiss.

Eyes fluttering shut, Yuuri lets himself fall into the warmth of Viktor’s embrace.

Yuuri feels like he might burn up, like the heat from Viktor’s hand in his, the heat from Viktor’s arm around Yuuri’s waist holding them pressed against each other, the fire of Viktor’s breath mingling with his own, might devour him whole. And the thought sends a shiver down his spine, ignites him with excitement.

There’s a sense of loss when Viktor pulls back. The cool air circles back around Yuuri, trying to invade the cocoon of warmth. Snow is falling harder, beginning to cover the pond with a thin layer that will probably make it harder to skate through, not that Yuuri has any desire to leave this one spot for the foreseeable future.

Especially not when Viktor’s eyes are sparkling at him like this, wide and innocent and incredibly happy. Yuuri thinks he might gladly stay here in Viktor’s arms until they risk succumbing to frostbite or some other ailment.

“If we don’t get back by sundown they’ll send the guard after us,” Viktor murmurs as if he can hear Yuuri’s thoughts. Though, he seems no more inclined to move than Yuuri does.

In fact, his hand curls into the fabric at Yuuri’s back, as if trying to prevent Yuuri from moving yet. Leaning forward, he brushes his lips against Yuuri’s nose in a chaste kiss. “You look like you’re ready to freeze, solnishko. Let’s go back.”

At the mention, Yuuri realizes he’s started to shiver and he sighs before nodding in agreement.

The pond is left behind, the steel skates placed back in the box for safekeeping. As he lets Viktor lead him back through the forest, hand-in-hand, Yuuri spares a look back, hoping it isn’t foolish of _him_ to wish they can come back one day without the concerns for their futures hanging over them like a reaper’s scythe.

He hopes the next time they come back, there won’t be reasons for them to fear the spring thaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say congrats to Viktor and Yuuri for giving me a writing record. Somehow my first fic of them also turned into the slowest burn I've ever written and boyyyy oh boy what an adventure to get here.
> 
> Chapter Song: _Sweet Creature_ by Harry Styles.


	21. yuletide gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pivotal gift marks the holiday season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you a million times to everyone who has left comments on the previous chapters, I enjoy reading every single one even if I wind up being unable to respond to them all. Also! Thank you, thank you, thank you for 900 kudos! I am in complete shock! When I started planning this story I never imagined so many of you would want to read it. 
> 
> I appreciate your patience more than I can articulate as I work on updates between my busy schedule! This chapter fought me tooth and nail and it's so relieving to finally have it done. We're coming up on the final stretch now!
> 
> [ **Fic Playlist** || listen on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq)  
>  This Chapter: Song 19  
> 

Pushing his nose deeper into Makkachin’s fur, Viktor tries to siphon off some of her heat to warm his half-frozen nose. His ears feel like they may fall off from the cold, his fingers are starting to sting, and he can’t stop smiling. Arms wrapped around Makkachin, Viktor lets a light laugh escape him, unable to completely contain his joy at the memory of the last hour.

“I kissed him, Makka!” he mumbles into soft brown fur, grin widening at how Makkachin’s tail begins wagging quickly as if she understands exactly what has Viktor so happy.

That moment, standing beside the private pond Viktor had spent so many winters of his childhood skating on alone, will be burned into his memory forever. Sharing that space with Yuuri, pulling laughter and smiles from the mage, was the lightest Viktor has felt since his mother got sick. The feeling of Yuuri’s lips moving against his…

Viktor laughs again, squeezing Makkachin tighter. “I’m not going to survive him.”

“Oh? Should I be concerned?” Christophe’s voice comes from behind Viktor.

Loosening his grip on Makkachin, Viktor glances over his shoulder to give his friend the most pitiable look he can muster when all he wants to do is smile. “He’s perfect, Chris. What am I going to do? My heart’s going to burst.”

“Well, if he’s such a hazard to your safety I suppose I’ll have to have him removed from your vicinity,” Christophe sounds almost bored with his response.

Viktor collapses on the ground, clutching his chest as if Christophe’s words were physical arrows that shot straight through his heart. “How cruel! My closest friend from childhood, mocking me in my hour of suffering.” Makkachin jumps over Viktor’s sprawling limps to push her nose against Viktor’s face, whimpering slightly until Viktor pats her head in consolation. “Only my dearest Makka has any sympathy for me.”

At that, Christophe’s facade breaks and he laughs at Viktor’s antics. “To think our mighty king would be reduced to such a mess by a single man. What did he do? Hold your hand?”

The ridiculously loopy smile is back on Viktor’s face, he can feel it spreading and can’t do anything to stop it from taking over his facial expressions at the memory. “I kissed him.”

“Finally.”

Viktor shoots upright into a seat on the floor, startling his poor dog in his sudden movement. “Finally?”

“I was worried you would just keep moping over him forever. It’s about time.” Christophe seems oblivious to Viktor’s shock as he asks, “you kissed him? Meaning you made the first move?”

Bewildered, Viktor nods.

“Hah! Mila owes me five gold pieces.”

“She owes you what?”

“She was convinced Yuuri would make the first move,” Christophe replies breezily, waving a hand through the air as if he couldn’t even fathom the notion. “But I told her that you’re physically incapable of holding back your feelings for long and that you’d make the first move.”

Throwing his arms around Makkachin—who is evidently the only one besides Yuuri in this damn castle Viktor can trust—he whines, “My friends are so cruel.”

Christophe laughs again and drops down so he’s at eye-level with Viktor, giving him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you so lively, but I’m afraid you’ll have to save pining over that mage for a little later. You’re due for that dinner meeting with the inner court.”

At the reminder, Viktor’s mood immediately sours and he lets out a heavy sigh. “Right, right. I suppose I should get going?”

“You have five minutes. I’ll let you get ready.” With that, Christophe steps out of Viktor’s private bedchamber and out into the sitting room, closing the door behind him.

Viktor lets out another, heavier, sigh and closes his eyes, trying to hold onto the utter joy he had felt in Yuuri’s company. If he can keep grasp of even a sliver of it, the rest of his day might be just that bit easier to bear.

It is an incredibly naive hope, one unfitting any kind of royalty, much less the king. He’s aware of how naive it is to carry that hope while he gets dressed, changing out of the winter wear he had donned to go ice skating and back into his more elaborate court attire. As he sheds the comfortable clothing that people like Yuuri get to wear all the time—that he got to pretend was part of his normal routine when they first got to know each other—and pulls on, piece-by-piece, the image of King Nikiforov, Viktor refuses to let his mind turn toward the more pragmatic and less idealized thoughts of his reality.

He refuses to dwell on the fact that, no matter how much his heart feels like it might burst from his chest with joy when he’s in Yuuri’s proximity, Yuuri will likely be gone within the year, riding to Ayutthaya when the snows melt.

He refuses to dwell on the fact that, as the king of Kiev—one without any close relatives (much less distant)—he is expected to produce an heir for the sake of keeping the monarchy strong within the kingdom. Refuses to dwell on the fact that he might not have a kingdom to produce an heir for within the year.

He refuses to dwell on how viscerally the very people he plans to spend his evening with would protest any ‘dalliance’ with a title-less, status-less, ‘incredibly dangerous’, mage like Yuuri.

In fairness, the thoughts do flit through his head, but Viktor stubbornly pushes them away each time they come.

Viktor has spent nearly twenty-eight years doing his best to be a model prince and, now, a model king. He’s closed himself off from wonderful friendships for the sake of politics, has forged a mask of steel around a formerly fragile heart. He has given his all to Kiev, only stealing precious moments here and there to be more than a prince: to be himself.

Around Yuuri, those moments come in abundance even when Viktor has to juggle being king alongside them.

Viktor loves his kingdom and has given up more for it than he frankly cares to think about. He will not let Yuuri become another faceless piece of collateral damage within his life, sacrificed for the sake of his title.

Yuuri deserves better than that.

A knock sounds on the door. “Five minutes are up!”

Letting his eyes flutter shut, Viktor indulges himself for seconds longer, remembering the smile that had curled onto Yuuri’s lips, the way it made brown eyes sparkle with happiness. Even without Yuuri at his side, the memory will be enough to help Viktor push through the rest of his day.

Squaring his shoulders, he strides out of his bedchamber, giving Christophe a brisk nod (which his captain responds to with a wink).

Dinner takes place in a private dining room in a wing of the castle that houses live-in nobility and it is every bit as miserable as Viktor anticipated. The inner court is comprised of the ten noble dynasties, including the Nikiforovs, that pre-date the creation of modern-day Kiev. These bloodlines are the bluest one could get perhaps in all of their known world (given how old Kiev itself is as a kingdom). And while Nikiforov remains the ruling family, dissent among the inner court could very well lead to a coup before Viktor would be given a chance to smooth things over.

They are, in no uncertain terms, the biggest threat to Viktor’s kingship other than the conquering bastards at his borders. But, unlike the Atreides Empire, Viktor has no other course of action but to walk the razor-thin line between placating and maintaining superiority.

It’s exhausting, and Viktor feels his energy draining as soon as he sweeps into the dining room.

“Ah, Your Majesty, we were getting worried that you might not make dinner.” The speaker is a man old enough to be Viktor’s father, the polite words unsuccessful in masking the hard look in his eyes.

Viktor smiles. “Apologies for our tardiness, Lord Dementyev. Rest assured only a national emergency would keep us from enjoying this company.”

He offers no excuses, knowing that truth—‘I lost track of time while flirting with Yuuri’—would be the worst thing he could say to the old man. Dementyev eyes Viktor, clearly waiting for the explanation that never comes before his brows draw down just a fraction.

Instead of pushing, he merely offers a short bow. “We are honored to be in such esteem on your priorities during this trying time.”

With a cordial nod, Viktor slides further into the room. It is slow going as he’s stopped every couple of feet by another member of the inner court, most of them offering barely concealed barbs about his lack of punctuality while others stop just shy of interrogating Viktor about his whereabouts.

By the time Viktor finally reaches the table, and his seat at its head, he’s had more than his fill of the event despite being aware the evening has only begun. A perfectly manicured hand rests on his arm for just a second (only long enough for Viktor to register its presence without drawing attention from other attendees). Glancing up, he lets the barest trace of a genuine smile filter through his mask at Mila who is dressed in court finery to a degree she usually forgoes.

Catching her hand, Viktor brings it to his lips, a teasing edge in his voice as he says, “You look stunning, Lady Babicheva.”

“Is that a hint of surprise I detect in your voice, Majesty?” Mila counters with a curtsey, spreading the skirts of her deep purple gown.

“Never.”

Mila gives a considering hum before saying, as if she has no real interest in the words that leave her mouth, “A little bird has told me I owe our Sir Giacometti a hefty sum in wager fees.”

Viktor’s eyes widen and he glances at the door, where Christophe is stationed with other members of the guard. “When did he-”

“Do give me some credit, your guard captain was not my bird. It should make you pleased to have such a venerable spymaster in your service.”

Dragging his eyes away from Christophe, Viktor quickly scans his immediate surroundings, alert for eavesdroppers before he drops his voice to a murmur. “And are you the only one with such news, my lady?”

Mila nods. “Of course.”

The confirmation that Mila’s information comes solely from her deft spies and not from castle gossip is a small relief, and Viktor resists the urge to sag against his chair as some of the tension leaves his shoulders. While he certainly feels no shame in kissing Yuuri, and fervently believes the mage deserves more respect from his courtiers, Viktor wants to have some control over how the information disseminates—he’d like Yuuri to have some sort of warning before becoming the subject of any more antagonistic castle gossip.

“If you want it to stay that way, I’d recommend being more discreet.” The advice is all but whispered as Mila moves away to take her seat just a few chairs down from Viktor.

As the nobles get settled, conversation idly roams from the upcoming Yuletide celebrations to the coronation planned in the summer (assuming Kiev is still standing). It isn’t until the first course is placed in front of each diner and all the servants have retreated back to the kitchens for the next course that the subject Viktor has dreaded most gets broached.

“I had the pleasure of coming across that new mage of yours, Majesty.”

Viktor’s eyes flick to the woman seated at his right. Lady Malikova is a stately woman that Viktor remembers knowing all his life, her hair is nearly as silver as his own but her political shrewdness is no lesser for her age. As the head of the only noble family in the court that predates the Nikiforovs, Lady Malikova has (in Viktor’s opinion) too much influence in the court.

He quirks an eyebrow to indicate he’s listening and Malikova continues. “Quite the quaint little thing, though I suppose it is to be expected as you found him in the country. It is unsettling to think such a destructive nature has been living so close to the capital all these years.”

“We assure you, my lady, there is no more destruction in Sir Katsuki’s nature than in our own. The powers he can wield have no bearing on his predisposition.”

“Altogether impossible to tell, I’m sure,” Malikova counters, looking much more interested in her salad than the conversation, for all that the nearest courtiers are hanging on their every word. “You are certainly strong-willed, but for a mage who can destroy an entire army, it is a viable concern to be worried about the extent of his powers over you and your mind. You are, after all, our king.”

Viktor chews his food, using the precious few moments to organize the sudden tumble of emotions that wash through him at her words. By proposing the idea of Yuuri being able to manipulate him through magical means, Lady Malikova just threw any voucher Viktor might provide for his character into question. More than that, the more benefits Yuuri receives from Viktor, the more such an idea will gain credence with those listening to this conversation (and those who hear of it through whispers).

“Considering that Sir Katsuki not only nursed our mother back to health where Lord Romanov failed, saved our squire—Lord Plisetsky—in the midst of the banquet chaos,” Viktor says this with a pointed look at the Duke Plisetsky, seated just on Malikova’s other side, “led our army’s medical teams to the point of maximum efficiency, and single-handedly saved Kiev from ruin, we do believe his actions speak for themselves much more than we ever could regarding his character.”

With a shrug, Viktor lifts his goblet, speaking into his wine as he adds, “We would shudder to think how the members of this esteemed court would be faring today if Katsuki had not been there to aid us in the victory. To our knowledge, Prince Menelaus is not kind to conquered nobility.”

At this statement, those listening to the conversation fall silent, no doubt remembering the horror stories of ruling nobility being publicly executed in the kingdoms conquered by the empire. Viktor sips his wine as if he doesn’t care either way how his comment is taken, but he doesn’t drop his gaze from the lady to his left.

Lady Malikova scans Viktor’s face for a long moment, her own expression unreadable as their plates are swept away and replaced with the second course. Eventually, she inclines her head, conceding the point. “None can doubt how invaluable Sir Katsuki has made himself for the war efforts. It would be a loss on your part if the mage slips away.”

Viktor smiles but doesn’t say anything in response, unwilling to make a promise that he cannot keep regarding Yuuri staying in Kiev but also unwilling to admit the likelihood of Yuuri leaving in such company.

To his right, he hears Mila change the subject to something lighter and Viktor silently begins to count the minutes until he is free of their company.

The questions don’t stop at the end of the dinner, not that Viktor expected them to. He made the decision to knight Yuuri without any input from his advising team, without any warning to the inner court or those among his knights. He even went behind Mila’s back to do it, and he’d gotten thoroughly lectured for that one.

As the week wears on, and Viktor is stuck in back-to-back meetings in a dire attempt to come up with some sort of plan to combat the inevitable war with the empire in the spring, he’s questioned at every turn about the ‘dangerous’ mage now holding a title in his court.

Everywhere Viktor goes he gets all but interrogated on his conviction regarding Yuuri’s motives, on his refusal to put some sort of monitoring or restriction system on the mage (as if anything Viktor or Kiev could do would have any power over a Katsuki mage). It’s draining and sets Viktor on edge and he doesn’t regret a single decision he made.

It’s impossible for every influential person in the Kievan capital to know Yuuri on a personal level. Without that interpersonal interaction, all these people know is the might of Yuuri’s power, and that alone is justifiably terrifying. Viktor doesn’t blame them for being scared of what Yuuri can do—if he didn’t wholeheartedly trust Yuuri he would be scared too.

Without any way to convince those around him that Yuuri means Kiev no harm, all Viktor can do is leverage his power as king to keep Yuuri safe. The honorary knighthood is a large step to that end, and Viktor has lost count of how many suggestions regarding ‘monitoring’ Yuuri’s activity he has been able to outright dismiss in the name of respecting Yuuri’s newfound title.

“Honestly, what do they think we’d be able to do that could exert any kind of control over Yuuri if he doesn’t want to oblige?” Viktor asks early one evening, glaring out the window of Mila’s tower study. “Are there even recorded cases of a mage of his power being controlled unwillingly?”

“None that I’ve unearthed,” Mila replies, sounding slightly distracted. “Though if the king and his spymaster are so ignorant in the matters of mage-kind is it any surprise that the rest of the court is as well?”

“They’re all fools,” Viktor mutters.

There’s a considering hum from Mila. “It could be as simple as playing along if you weren’t so stubborn.”

“Playing along?”

“Have Yuuri make some sort of oath in front of a hall of witnesses, that should quiet down maybe half of the protests.”

Viktor turns from the window to look at Mila, who is evidently paying much more attention to the papers on her desk than the conversation given how she mumbles over a line before scratching it out. “I can’t have Yuuri swear an oath that he doesn’t mean to keep. And it is the very notion that mages need to be bound to a royal court in order to be worthwhile that he hates.”

Flipping a page, Mila says, “Then it seems we’re still at a stalemate.”

“And what of the knights who attacked Yuuri?”

At that question, she looks up from her work, eyes sharp on Viktor’s face. “I have the names of the four Yuri was able to identify, but I’m still missing at least three more. Even if I did have all the names, their families are too powerful for you to do much in the name of a foreigner.”

“Yuuri is as much a Kievan as you or I.”

“You know many of them would disagree with that.”

With a snort of derision, Viktor says, “And it is attitudes like those that will destroy Kiev. If our enemies were smarter they would just wait at our border while we rot from the inside and attack when the country is at its weakest.”

Drumming her fingers on the table, Mila doesn’t comment. Instead, her eyes rove Viktor’s face for several minutes before she reaches to her side and pulls out a sheaf of paper. She considers the paper before saying, “I’ll reschedule your strategy meeting with Yakov and the generals. You’re too wound up to do anyone good in that regard. All that leaves is your review with the quartermaster, which I can handle.” Putting the paper down, Mila meets his gaze again. “Go. Get some fresh air, get some exercise, do something. You’re just going to implode at this rate and I’d rather not take my chances on Lady Malikova ascending the throne.”

“Mila, I can’t just-”

“You’ve been working nonstop for the last week, Viktor. You can take a break.” She drops her attention back to the desk, clearly dismissing the conversation. “Go see Yuuri, maybe that will brighten up your disposition.”

Sighing, Viktor pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “I’m pretty certain it’s common practice for leaders to work nonstop when their kingdom is at war.”

“I’m sure it is, but you’ve been giving it your all, it won’t be the end of Kiev if you take the rest of the evening off. Get out of my office so I can concentrate.”

Scanning Mila’s desk, Viktor takes in the mass of reports and documents she likely has to read through in a timely manner and spares a moment to regret how much work is on her shoulders. Mila’s age isn’t something that often comes up, especially considering how the Babichev house has historically trained their children from young ages for their job and that Mila has been handling the post brilliantly, but now Viktor takes the time to admit such an important position shouldn’t be on the shoulders of someone so young.

It gives him one more reason, atop hundreds, to deeply resent the Atreides Empire. He and Mila were not supposed to be in their respective positions, these positions were meant to be held by their parents for decades longer so that they could learn as much as possible from the people who knew what they were doing. The Atreides Empire stole precious moments of youth from not just him and Mila but the dozens of squires who died on the battlefield without receiving their knighthood, from the children in the villages the invading army slaughtered.

“We’re going to get those bastards,” Viktor says, more to himself than to Mila, but meaning every word.

Blue eyes widen slightly and Mila looks up at Viktor, the ghost of a smile playing around her lips. “What kind of a disgrace would we be if we didn’t?”

Satisfied with the response, Viktor gives his friend a decisive nod and trails out of her office. He’ll take the rest of the day off, as recommended, and attack the problem with renewed vigor in the morning.

There must be some angle they have not examined yet, some way for them to snatch victory from the invaders in a way that is too costly for the Atreides Empire to attack Kiev ever again. Viktor’s been so caught up in the politics of the court, in the hopeless numbers that stared up at him from every report that he’s begun to lose a bit of his fire, has begun to doubt whether or not they’ll be able to survive this at all.

Mind preoccupied, Viktor doesn’t pay much attention to where he goes after leaving the northern tower. It’s only when he nearly runs into a young apprentice that he blinks and takes the time to study his surroundings.

Without realizing it, he made his way to the infirmary and a small smile tugs on Viktor’s mouth at the prospect of finding Yuuri here.

The infirmary isn’t an area that Viktor has ever spent any amount of extended time in. In the event that he’s injured or sick, a nurse or doctor will simply come to his location and treat him there. Viktor knows where the infirmary is, knows how to get there, but he doesn’t really know what to expect from the medical base of the castle on a day-to-day basis.

Considering that it’s been a couple of weeks since the army’s return from march and that most of the injured soldiers have been released from medical watch, Viktor had assumed the infirmary would be in a lull.

His assumption seems to be wildly off-base given how many nurses are currently handling patients (some of whom are in and out in the door in the span of time it takes Viktor to comprehend the situation while others get delegated to side rooms or hospital beds). In the midst of the chaos, like the eye of the storm, is Yuuri looking so at home that Viktor is struck motionless just inside the door.

Yuuri is holding a tablet of notes, a charcoal pencil thrust behind one ear as he gives directions, listens to questions, and confidently answers. He riffles through the notes, ripping some out of the tablet to hand to questioning nurses and writing on others in response to comments from the infirmary’s head doctor.

Despite being a newcomer in this area of the castle, and despite having no official position in the same, everything within the infirmary seems to revolve around Yuuri: evidence that there are others in the castle who see the mage’s worth, who aren’t blinded by fear and suspicion.

It makes Viktor’s smile widen. Seeing allies for Yuuri here, people who might possibly defend Yuuri to any critics if the need arose, is comforting.

And even though he had been excited at the prospect of spending some time with Yuuri, Viktor can’t possibly pull him away when he’s so central to the work being done. Resolving himself to be content with just this insight, Viktor backs out of the room and turns in the direction he came, heading for his chambers.

He doesn’t make it so much as five steps when he hears a familiar voice.

“Viktor!”

Turning, Viktor smiles at Yuuri, who is rushing out of the infirmary with the charcoal pencil still behind his ear. “I just came to say hello, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Disturb me from what?” Yuuri asks, tilting his head curiously. “I’m nobody important in there, they don’t need me for anything.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Viktor glances back at the infirmary. “They were circled around you like you were in charge of it.”

Pink tinges Yuuri’s cheek and he waves a hand. “That’s nothing, really.”

Rather than argue with Yuuri—regardless of the fact that Viktor is quite certain that Yuuri is much more than ‘nobody important’ in the infirmary—Viktor reaches out, plucking the piece of charcoal free with a wink. “In that case, might I impose upon you for a quiet dinner?”

“You’re never an imposition.”

The matter-of-fact response has Viktor’s own cheeks heating up and his smile widens as he fiddles with the pencil, wishing beyond hope that the corridor wasn’t full of castle traffic so he could do something about the way his heart feels ready to burst in the presence of this unbearably wonderful man.

Decorum and polite manners rein Viktor in and he contents himself with motioning down the hallway. “Then…shall we?”

Yuuri nods and they fall into step as they travel through the halls of the palace. As they walk, Viktor is keenly aware the stares that follow them: sharp and calculating from nobles to servants and all those in-between. Even if, as Mila promised, no one else in the castle knows of the romantic inclinations between the pair of them, the sight of the king and a Great Mage traversing the halls unescorted is enough to turn heads.

“Everyone is staring.” He’s surprised when Yuuri comments on it.

Glancing down, Viktor asks, “You noticed?”

The corner of Yuuri’s mouth turns up in a wry smile. “It’s hard not to when their stares are so intense.”

“Does it bother you?”

“It used to bother me a lot,” Yuuri muses, eyes flicking over the faces in the hall that they pass. “But recently it hasn’t as much, I suppose I’m getting used to it.” He smiles up at Viktor. “Or you’re giving me strength.”

Viktor (just barely) resists the urge to clutch at his chest in response to how beautiful Yuuri’s smile is. When they reach his chambers, Viktor ushers Yuuri inside before turning to catch the eye of the nearest servant.

“Please have the kitchens send dinner for two to my chambers post-haste.”

He barely waits for the servant’s bow and ‘yes, Your Majesty’ before slipping into his sitting room and letting the door slide shut behind him. Yuuri is on his knees, cooing softly to Makkachin as the poodle wags her tail enthusiastically. And, just like the first time Viktor saw them interact, the picture is enough to render him speechless. Or, it would be if there wasn’t something incredibly important that needed to be done.

Tapping Yuuri on the shoulder, Viktor holds out a hand to the mage while making eye contact with his dog. “My apologies, Makka, but I need to steal him for just a moment.”

Makkachin barks softly in response, which has both men laughing as Yuuri places his hand in Viktor’s and lets Viktor pull him onto his feet.

“Steal me for what?” Yuuri asks.

“To say that I missed you terribly.”

Yuuri grins, a knowing glint in his eye. “You could have told me that while I was petting Makkachin. Are you sure there wasn’t a different motive at play, King Nikiforov?”

Unlike every other time someone uses that title, the words roll off of Yuuri’s tongue with a lighthearted caress: acknowledging his position without deferring to his status in a way that makes Viktor feel weightless. Unable to keep the game going much any longer, Viktor drops a kiss on Yuuri’s grinning mouth: chaste and light and only seconds long before he pulls back.

He doesn’t get far because Yuuri’s hand curls at the nape of Viktor’s neck, preventing him from retreating farther as he presses back into the kiss, slow and deliberate in a way that makes Viktor’s stomach flutter and might have had him turn into a puddle on the floor if it weren’t for Yuuri’s grounding grip.

When Yuuri pulls away, Viktor feels all the breath in his lungs going with the mage, along with all the worries and fears that have plagued him since the last time they saw each other.

“I missed you terribly,” Viktor murmurs.

Yuuri’s smile is worth a thousand suns as he replies, “I missed you too.”

 

* * *

 

_“Nee-san?” Yuuri tugs on the hem of his sister’s sleeve until she looks down from her book to meet his gaze. “Are you scared?”_

_Mari frowns at the question. “Scared? Of what?”_

_“Papa says you’ll be the Magic Keeper one day, when mama is all done,” Yuuri explains, kicking his legs as he talks. He still doesn’t quite understand the concept of the title, only really knows that it is important and that a lot of people depend on his mother to be good at it._

_With all his seven years of worldly experience, Yuuri thinks all the people looking up to him would be scary._

_“Are you scared?” he repeats._

_Mari tilts her head thoughtfully, eyes sliding away from Yuuri to fall on the calm waters of Asami’s spring. Eventually, she nods. “It is scary to think about sometimes but I’m not scared of it.”_

_The answer doesn’t make sense to Yuuri. “Why not?”_

_“Because mama and papa are teaching me everything I’ll need to know, and I won’t be Magic Keeper for a long time. Also, it will be fun to help all the other mages like mama does.”_

_“The ones in the village?”_

_Mari shakes her head. “Not just in the village, I want to help as many as I can! There’s a lot of mages living all by themselves in strange lands.”_

_Yuuri frowns. “That sounds scary.”_

_It pulls a laugh from his sister. “It is scary, that’s why I want to help them. I can’t be scared too, then I won’t be able to do what I need to. So…I’m excited.”_

_Faced with Mari’s enthusiasm, Yuuri grins. “You’re going to be a great Magic Keeper, nee-san!”_

_A hand drops on top of his head to ruffle his hair (ignoring his loud protests) as Mari laughs some more. “And you’re going to help me, right Yuu-kun?”_

_“Right!”_

More and more memories have been coming back to Yuuri lately, filtering through his dreams, interrupting his meditations, and tugging at his heart strings every time he is reminded of something happy that he managed to suppress. The memory of Mari is one of those very memories, and Yuuri blinks back tears thinking of his older sister, how she had stayed behind to try and save the rest of the villagers without hesitation.

She would have made an amazing Magic Keeper, and it’s not just Yuuri but the world who will sorely miss her loss.

It’s no wonder that the memories have been flooding back to Yuuri not matter how often they make him teary-eyed and nostalgic. By devoting so much time to his dreamscape, tending to the garden and helping it return to its former beauty—by being so in tune with his magic—Yuuri has opened himself up more, has needed to tap into those memories to find examples of his mother’s lessons that might not have stuck out to him for years.

Most of the time, Yuuri welcomes the forgotten glimpses of his past, but they don’t always come at the most opportune times.

At the moment, he struggles to get up from the floor and stand on legs gone numb from how long they had been tucked underneath him in his meditation. The chimes of the temple tour calling the hour feel like a warning, each one telling Yuuri that he has to get a move on. The pounding on his door is getting more aggressive, clearly growing more impatient.

Finally, he gets to his feet, shakes his head to clear it, and rushes to the door.

Yurio’s fist freezes in mid-air, just in front of Yuuri’s face (narrowly avoiding crashing into Yuuri’s nose). They stare at each other, Yuuri trying not to let his panicked haste show on his face while Yurio merely glares.

It’s Yurio who speaks first, lightly knocking Yuuri on his forehead before dropping his hand. “Took you forever.”

“Sorry, I was preoccupied.” Yuuri steps aside to let the squire into his chambers.

Yurio scans the room, voice dubious as he asks, “Preoccupied with what? Napping.”

“I was meditating,” Yuuri says.

“Meditating?” Yurio repeats, drawing out the word as he takes in the array of magical tools settled on the floor in front of where Yuuri had been sitting. When he turns back to meet Yuuri’s gaze, he says, “I’m not going to have to do that shit, am I?”

Sometimes it truly astounds Yuuri how crass the younger man is, especially considering how influential the Plisetsky family evidently is in Kievan politics. Out of the small group he met in at Minako’s tavern after the strange incident with the wolf, Yurio is the one Yuuri finds it hardest to reconcile with his actual position in court.

He makes his way further into the room, picking up a spare mat from where it lay propped against the wall and placing it in front of the fireplace. “In a way, but not the type you’re probably imagining. Take a seat.”

Yurio does as told, unclipping his sword and placing it by his side so he can sit more comfortably on the mat. As the squire gets settled, Yuuri drags the mat he had previously been kneeling on to rest opposite Yurio on a diagonal so he has a clear view of the boy and the fireplace.

It has been a long time since Yuuri taught anyone magic fundamentals. In fact, the last time had done so it had been with Phichit, while still living in Ayutthaya. Even though the subject of these lessons is not technically magic, it still feels odd to stand opposite Yurio and gather his thoughts for a formal lesson.

And there had been no chance of Yuuri slipping out of these lessons. He had been more than a little surprised when Yurio hunted him down in the infirmary just days after saving him from the gang of knights to remind Yuuri of his promise to show Yurio the ‘trick’ with the fire. Even though Yuuri had repeatedly mentioned that he has no idea if it’s something Yurio can learn, the squire was not deterred.

At the moment, Yuuri can see the determination in green eyes and he nods slightly to himself. If anyone without magical inclination can master this, he thinks it could be Yuri Plisetsky.

Reaching for the flint, Yuuri makes quick work of starting a fire in the cool fireplace before taking his own seat.

Clearing his throat, he begins his lesson. “As I told you during the march south, this particular skill isn’t magic so much as it is making friends with the elements. All of the elements have their own language and learning how to speak to them is the key to this skill. Normally, we would start with water.”

“Why?”

“Water is the element that exists closest to all physical beings. We need water to survive, our bodies are full of water, we are part of the water’s essence.” Yuuri shrugs. “That makes its language simpler to speak for most.”

Green eyes flick to the fire behind Yuuri, still burning incredibly low despite the abundance of wood in the fireplace. “But we’re not starting with water.”

There isn’t a question in Yurio’s voice, and Yuuri tucks away a smile at how even the squire’s genuine curiosity is masked with a slight bite. “No, we’re not. You asked to learn the fire’s language and while it tends to be the trickiest for many to master, I get the sense that if you pick up any of the languages it would be this one.”

“Fire is…” Yuuri trails off thoughtfully, acutely aware of the flames licking the logs to his side. “…fiercely independent and quite stubborn. Even if you speak in its language, it takes a lot of work to get the fire to listen to you.”

“Like taming a wild horse?”

Pursing his lips, Yuuri replies, “Almost comparable. But it’s important to remember that you’re not learning how to control or ‘tame’ the elements, they are larger than us or our existence and will not bow down to you. All you can do is befriend them and treat them with respect.”

Yurio frowned. “You make it sound like they’re alive.”

The fire roared, flames suddenly bursting higher until the heat from the hearth is almost unbearable, the snaps of amber exploding inside loudly and almost violently.

Motioning to the dramatic display, Yuuri cocks an eyebrow. “Aren’t they?”

Yurio’s eyes were wide on the fire, watching as the flames climb higher and higher until Yuuri gives the hearth a pointed look and clears his throat. Just like that, the fire is back under control, crackling in the fireplace as if nothing had occurred.

When Yuuri turns back to look at his new student, there’s a matching flame alight in Yurio’s eyes, his jaw clenched even as his lips pull in a slight smile. Yuuri can feel the excitement filling Yurio at the possibility of being able to command the fire as Yuuri does and it sends warmth through Yuuri’s veins that the reminder that not everyone is afraid of these powers, that some want to learn as much as they can.

“Before we start, I need two promises out of you, Yurio.”

“Not my name,” Yurio snaps.

“ _Yuri_ , this is important.” Appealing with his given name, Yuuri waits for Yurio’s attention to shift back to him and for the squire to nod, indicating his focus. “The first promise is that, if you learn this skill, you won’t use it extraneously or abuse its powers.”

Yurio tilts his head, considering the condition. “Does lighting the assholes who beat you the other day on fire count as an abuse of the powers?”

“Yes.”

The squire huffs, “Fine. I promise.”

“The second promise is that you don’t share the secret behind this skill or the technique to anyone at any cost.”

There is a reason only the Katsukis learned how to handle the elements. In the wrong hands, Yuuri shudders to think of the horrors that could be accomplished: especially if it turns out normal humans _can_ command the elements just as well as mages. It could throw their world into an entirely new dimension of warfare with much dire consequences.

If he’s going to share the technique, Yuuri is only going to do so to a select few, and only on his own terms. He can see Yuri turning the promise over his head, thinking it through more than he had the last: no doubt with the same concerns Yuuri himself has over the promise.

_What if Viktor asks?_

As knight master and king, denying to share the technique with the man could likely get Yurio in quite a lot of trouble.

“If Viktor or anyone else asks about it, tell them it’s on my express order that you will not share the technique. If they have a problem with the rule, they can take it up with me,” Yuuri offers when the silence begins to stretch too long.

Slowly, Yurio nods. “I accept both of your conditions, now show me how to do it.”

Letting out a slow breath to release the pent-up nerves over the last condition, Yuuri nods and begins his lesson.

 

* * *

 

The palace is bustling, almost bursting at the seams with all the activity in its walls. More than that, the capital city itself is so lively that one could forget entirely that the kingdom is at war. In fact, as Yuuri struggles to make his way through the crowded corridors of the castle, he wonders if the inhabitants of the building _have_ forgotten that Kiev is at war.

For those who had been spared the dubious honor of marching south to battle, Yuuri supposes he can see how they might forget the reality of the kingdom’s situation. After all, without having to confront the incessant nightmares—memories of soldiers as young as fifteen being beheaded in the midst of the melee, images of an entire army being torn to shreds—the continual snowfall probably makes a pleasant barrier with which to avoid such realities.

And the snowfall hasn’t ceased in over a week. Even though Yuuri has lived in Kiev for several years, he always finds the intensity of its winter surprising. From the windows of the castle, he can hardly make out the city gates through the dense flurries.

It’s a sharp contrast from the blood-soaked grass of the battlefield.

Shuddering at the memory, Yuuri continues making his way through the halls, careful not to bump into anyone he passes: not wanting to cause a scene. When he finally reaches his destination, Yuuri knocks on the heavy-set door, each second dragging on an eternity until the door swings open and Mila lets him inside the deceased mage’s office.

Taking one look at him, Mila smirks. “You look frazzled for a man who has no set schedule to tie him down.”

Instead of letting her tease him, Yuuri slumps into the chair he claimed as his own when they first started making their way through Romanov’s belongings. “I’m surprised you still have business in here.”

“I don’t,” she admits easily, plopping into her own chair and holding up a stack of reports. “I’m just doing my normal work but doing it here means about half of the useless messengers sent for me today won’t find me.” Her smirk turns sharper and Yuuri feels a sense of foreboding regarding her next words. “It seems our favored king isn’t the only one who can find respite in your company.”

Yuuri doesn’t blush. It’s a close-fought battle, though, and he coughs into his fist lightly.

He has been spending quite a bit of time with Viktor over the last several days, ever since the other man came to find him in the infirmary. Most of their time is divided between their two chambers, talking over cups of tea or merely watching the fire as they rest on comfortable chairs under blankets. Once or twice, Viktor managed to talk Yuuri into telling him a story with the flames.

In those moments, the bustle of the castle feels like it is several lifetimes away, like it will never catch up to either of them. Yuuri revels in the sensation, but even if Viktor rarely talks about how his day has been, Yuuri can tell it’s the young king who needs those quiet moments more than Yuuri could probably comprehend. It is a reward of its own to feel Viktor relax against him in those quiet moments, and the smile that beams up at Yuuri all too easily is something he covets, particularly when he comes across King Nikiforov and is struck with the difference between how Viktor acts around him and how he behaves in public.

“You’ve been good for him,” Mila says, and Yuuri suddenly realizes how long he fell silent. This time he does blush, but Mila doesn’t seem interested in teasing him for it. Instead, she continues, “if it weren’t for your presence I’d have a hard time keeping him from working himself to the bone.”

Yuuri doesn’t doubt that claim. Leaning forward, he runs a considering gaze over Mila. “What about you? Have you been getting proper rest?”

“I’ll rest when we drive those barbarians off our lands.”

It’s not the answer Yuuri is looking for and he opens his mouth to protest, but Mila gives him a sharp look that makes it obvious this line of questioning will not end well for either of them.

Switching the subject, Yuuri mumbles, “It seems you’re one of the only people who remembers we’re at war.”

“We, huh?” Mila muses, so soft that Yuuri almost misses it. When she speaks up, it’s with a shrug as her eyes fall to her reports. “This is always a big time of year, not to mention it’s Viktor’s first birthday as king. We can’t very well let it slide past without celebration: it is good to give the people some normalcy in times like this.”

Yuuri’s eyes are wide as he stares at the top of Mila’s head, only one piece of information sticking out for him. “Viktor’s birthday?”

She hums in confirmation, “It being the same day as Yule has always made this time of year particularly busy in the palace.”

“His birthday is on Yule? That’s next week!” It comes out slightly louder than Yuuri was intending, and Mila looks up from her reports.

Cocking an eyebrow, she says, “you didn’t know?” Yuuri shakes his head. “Well, I suppose the people in the outer villages probably don’t celebrate it since they have no real connection with the royal family. Why do you look so pale?”

“Viktor’s birthday is next week and I don’t have a present for him.” It seems like his problem should be fairly obvious, especially considering Yuuri has already been stressed searching for a Yule present for Viktor. What can he buy the man who rules an entire kingdom? Anything Viktor wants he can order brought to his chambers within hours.

“If he hasn’t brought it up, I assume he’s not expecting a present at all. Viktor hasn’t said much about the upcoming celebrations at all, really.” A mournful smile flickers across her face. “It is his first birthday without her late Majesty.”

“Oh.” Yuuri feels his heart breaking slightly for Viktor, remembering the first birthday he had endured without his family and how empty the entire day felt.

“In truth, just your presence will be a gift to him. He’s quite preoccupied trying to find a way for us to win this war and would probably rather we forego all the celebrations. Not that he’s said as much, but it’s fairly obvious if you know where to look.” Mila’s eyes trail back to her reports, her attention already drifting away from the conversation before she’s even done speaking.

Yuuri knows exactly what Mila means. For all that he’s been privy to none of the meetings regarding the upcoming war efforts and Viktor never mentions how preparations are going if he can avoid it, Yuuri knows as well as any of the other soldiers who survived the march south: Kiev is in dire straits, and it will take nothing short of a miracle (or another obscene display of magic) to get them out of it in one piece.

And even if Yuuri was inclined to unleash the fearsome power he’d discovered, he’s not sure it will be enough this time. Having lost the element of surprise, having been confronted by the enemy mage, he isn’t sure a blanket attack will work anymore. If it comes down to a one-on-one battle between himself and the woman who had secreted herself into his tent only to leave him unharmed Yuuri is hard-pressed to give a prediction on who will make it out alive.

It is a frightening prospect—what’s beyond the snows—and Yuuri isn’t bearing the weight of an entire kingdom on his shoulders. It is a wonder that Viktor is able to smile at all, let alone act so light-hearted when it’s the two of them alone.

“A solution to this mess is probably the only present he really would care for,” Yuuri murmurs, more to himself than for Mila.

She hears him anyways and lets out a snort. “If you manage to find one I’d marry you myself, Katsuki.”

Yuuri ignores the jest, mind already whirring as he leans back in his seat, considering the problem Kiev has found itself in and all the factors that influence it. He thinks of Ayutthaya, sending naval support in the spring; he thinks of Viktor’s own skills, so supreme that Yuuri has little doubt Viktor would be able to best the enemy leader if given the opportunity; he thinks of his magic, how it thrums under his skin alive and more powerful than ever—perhaps powerful enough to handle the enemy mage.

Pushing aside the books he has been studying for the past weeks of winter, Yuuri gets up and walks to the bookshelves, searching for a set of tomes he hadn’t previously been interested in studying.

Just the prospect of Viktor’s smile, the weight that could be lifted off of the tirelessly working man’s shoulders, if Yuuri is able to pull this off fills him with determination. He’s already stolen precious minutes, hours, of Viktor’s time—time that could be further devoted to the safety of the Kievan people—Yuuri might as well prove that his presence is worth that time, if not more than it.

He’s going to find a solution, and he’s going to do it in a week.

 

* * *

 

Growing up as the only child of the Nikiforov house and heir to the throne, Viktor received what some would consider a gold-standard education. He learned about poetry and history and economics, politics and etiquette and military strategy. Even so, it doesn’t take someone with his education to know that, objectively, the longest day of the year occurs during the summer solstice.

Viktor knows that, but it doesn’t change the fact that this particular day has been dragging on for an eternity.

It’s exhausting to be shoved into a spotlight of revelry and celebration when his heart aches each time someone addresses him as ‘Your Majesty’. There doesn’t seem to be a single well-wisher who understands Viktor would prefer to spend this particular Yule locked in his chambers with far too much chocolate and perhaps several goblets of booze, trying to forget how much he misses his mother.

It is impossible not to think of her at every turn and the way she would invite him to an early breakfast each year, eager to be one of the first (if not the first) to wish him a happy birthday and gift him once for his birthday and then twice for the holiday. It is hard not to think about how they would round out the day in Viktor’s sitting room, laughing for hours as she shed the dignity of her station and regaled Viktor with the most embarrassing stories she remembered from when she was his newly-turned age.

Viktor wants this day to be over as soon as possible. Doesn’t want to look at all the happy families that get to share in the closeness of the holiday with each other while he’s left with no living family to speak of.

The Nikiforov line has always been small, it has never felt so unbearably lonely as it does today.

Perhaps the only people who understand the agony of the day are his closest friends. Yurio barely grunts a ‘happy birthday’ to Viktor and throws the poorly wrapped present at Viktor’s head (narrowly missing hitting the king) without apology and no further sentimental expression. Christophe makes sure Viktor is left alone for the majority of the morning, giving him a clap on the shoulder without a word as they make their way down the corridor to the grand banquet hall for the Yule feast. Mila, who no doubt feels the loss of her father as Viktor feels for his mother, gives him a small smile and jokes that her present is not giving him paperwork or reports to read over today.

And Yuuri…

Viktor hasn’t seen a hair of him all day.

He had toyed with the idea of inviting the mage to breakfast, but it felt hollow to try and mimic the family tradition so soon after his mother’s death. When he arrives at the banquet, his eyes immediately flick toward the table of palace healers and doctors, searching for Yuuri to no avail. His question to Mila gets answered with a noncommittal shrug, the noblewoman saying she wasn’t sure why he wasn’t in attendance.

It probably shouldn’t sting as much as it does, particularly because Viktor hasn’t mentioned a word of his birthday to the other man. It isn’t fair to expect Yuuri to even know it is his birthday at all, much less that Viktor has any wishes to celebrate it because, frankly, he does not. But Yuuri’s presence alone is a breath of fresh air in Viktor’s life, and it is more difficult than usual to get through his day without the respite of time with Yuuri.

By the time the banquet has dragged on long enough that Viktor’s presence won’t be sorely missed, his feet are so heavy it’s nearly impossible to lift them from the floor. Rounding the corner to enter the royal wing of the castle, he comes to a halt, surprised as warmth blooms in his chest.

Yuuri is seated on the floor next to his doors, asleep. Viktor thinks he feels his heart stutter slightly at the way Yuuri’s knees are curled up to his chest and his glasses slightly askew.

Forcing himself forward again, he catches the eye of one of the guards posted. “Why isn’t he in my sitting rooms?”

The guard gives a helpless shrug. “We tried, Your Majesty, but he insisted he didn’t want to impose and that he could wait out here.”

“How long has he been waiting?”

Both guards exchange glances, mentally counting up the time before the second offers, “At least an hour, sire.”

Torn between amusement and exasperation at Yuuri’s stubborn streak, Viktor kneels down in front of the sleeping mage and brushes black hair away from Yuuri’s face. He’s struck with the urge to press a kiss to the younger man’s cheek but refrains—even if Christophe makes sure his guard doesn’t gossip, Viktor doesn’t want to take the chance anywhere other than behind closed doors.

“Yuuri, wake up.”

Slowly, brown eyes blink open, fixed blearily on Viktor as if Yuuri hasn’t had a restful night’s sleep in days. It’s odd to consider, since Viktor has gone out of his way to try and spare Yuuri the stress that has been the backbone of his days as of late.

Pushing the concern down, Viktor smiles. “You should have waited in my sitting room.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Yuuri yawns, “and I forgot there was a big banquet happening.”

Forgot? That would certainly explain Yuuri’s lack of attendance. “If I had been able to get away sooner I would have.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Yuuri pushes himself to his feet, offering a hand down that Viktor gladly accepts as he straightens himself. “I came to give you your present.”

Viktor tilts his head, curious given that Yuuri isn’t carrying anything, much less a present. “We should step inside my sitting room then, I can…” he trails off as Yuuri shakes his head.

“It’s this way, come on.” Yuuri reaches out, grabbing Viktor’s wrist and pulling.

Without making a conscious decision to, Viktor follows after the mage. He lets Yuuri lead him, growing increasingly more confused but no less curious as to what Yuuri could have in mind, much less how he could have hidden some sort of present within the walls of the castle without Viktor hearing a whisper.

Eventually, he’s lead into a small meeting room. Because of its position near the outer walls of the palace, it is seldom used in winter: unable to stay warm enough to keep its occupants comfortable. That doesn’t seem to be a deterrent to Yuuri given how the embers burning low in the braziers stationed around the room burst into flames when he gives just one a sharp look.

And the room that many would call ‘abandoned for winter’ looks anything but. Maps and books and sheaves of paper are splayed out on the table as if the room has been playing the role of someone’s office.

“Yuuri, what is this?”

“Sit down,” Yuuri insists, motioning to a chair as he finally lets Viktor go. When Viktor sits, Yuuri shifts on his feet slightly, tugging on the hem of his over-robe before speaking. “I couldn’t figure out what to get you for Yule or your birthday, so I hope you’ll accept a joint gift.”

Smiling, Viktor leans forward. “I don’t need a gift, just spending time with you is enough.”

Yuuri blushes. Viktor loves when Yuuri blushes and he barely manages to keep his smile from growing at the reaction.

A blush doesn’t stop Yuuri, however, and he shakes his head. “I already got you a present, I’ve spent the last week working on it.”

Eyes flicking to the messy table, Viktor tries to put the pieces together. “Okay?”

Putting his palms down on the surface of the table, on top of the maps Viktor was studying, Yuuri bends down, commanding Viktor’s attention back to him as their foreheads nearly touch.

Yuuri murmurs, “I found a way to win.”

It’s difficult to concentrate in such close proximity to Yuuri, but Viktor forces himself to pay attention to the words that come out of Yuuri’s mouth just as much as the tempting allure of the way his lips shape said words.

“You…you what?”

“The war, the empire, the mage: I think I found a way to win.”

Viktor’s eyes widen and he leans back, taking in Yuuri to see if the mage is joking with him. There is nothing but fierce determination in Yuuri’s eye and Viktor hums thoughtfully. A strategy meeting is much more bearable today than it normally would be—though he supposes the company is what makes it so—and much more bearable than a sentimental gift at such a time in Viktor’s life.

Tilting his head, he nods slowly. “I’m listening.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath, straightens, and launches into his proposal.

As he talks, Viktor feels it: the first inklings of hope stirring in his chest. There are aspects of Yuuri’s plan that are beyond ballsy, that are so risky Viktor knows they won’t get past his overzealous protectors. There are places where Yuuri’s lack of experience in military matters becomes blatantly obvious. But they don’t matter, because Yuuri has done it: Yuuri found the loophole that will let Kiev steal the victory.

It’s the best present anyone could have gotten Viktor: the best present he’s gotten all day.

Before Yuuri is even done speaking, he is out of his chair, hands cradling Yuuri’s face as he tugs him into a kiss. Yuuri squeaks in surprise but quickly adjusts, hands curling against Viktor’s hips as he smiles against Viktor’s mouth.

Pulling away, Viktor laughs. “You did it, solnishko! You’re absolutely amazing.”

“You think it will work?” Yuuri asks, voice suddenly much smaller now that his prepared speech has run out.

“I think there are a few things that need to be tweaked, but the essence, the idea behind it—that’s what we all have been searching for. You found the solution to our biggest problem. This is a more wonderful gift than I could dream of.”

Yuuri smiles: big and warm, his eyes sparkling and sharing their joy with Viktor. “Happy birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: _There for You_ by Martin Garrix  & Troye Sivan


	22. planning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri's plan gets set into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking at the chapter count tick closer and closer to being 25/25 honestly has me shook. Because we're getting down to the wire, this particular chapter gave me SO much trouble, I ended up rewriting it three or four times, my apologies for the long wait!
> 
> [ **Fic Playlist** || listen on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq)  
>  This Chapter: Song 20  
> 

Although Yuuri might have found a way to win the war against the Atreides Empire, it’s up to Viktor to find a way to convince those who matter that the strategy is worth the considerable risks involved. Without the correct plan of attack, Yuuri’s plan will be shot down instantly, regardless of the fact that it is the most viable option Kiev has when it comes to survival.

He starts with Mila.

That much was never a question. Mila’s unparalleled information regarding the invading army and the political climate within Kiev combine to make her the person he has to sway if he has any chance in hell of setting this plan into motion. Her ability to be won over by pure logic and her tendency to throw out the worst-case scenarios and force Viktor to come up with a solution for each also make her office the best testing ground for what has the potential to be quite the uphill battle.

Viktor doesn’t have time to waste so he visits her the next night.

Mila can tell that something is on his mind the minute he steps into her office. Green eyes flick up from her reports for a brief survey of Viktor’s face. Usually, they will immediately drop back to her work without pause as she waves him to a seat. Tonight, she puts down her pen and pushes her current document aside as she watches Viktor cross the room to take the seat opposite her.

“Please spit it out so I can stop imagining all the horrible reasons why you have that pinched look on your face,” she says without preamble.

“Pinched look?”

She taps her face directly between her eyebrows. “Right here, when something is bothering you and you’re trying to act like everything is fine. Or when you’re about to propose something ridiculous and are trying to prevent setting your listener on guard.”

Viktor shakes his head slightly. “I wouldn’t call it ridiculous.”

“Then get on with it.”

“Yesterday, after the banquet, I spoke with Yuuri. He proposed a strategy that I think may be our best chance at winning this war.”

Mila’s eyebrows quirk up just enough to make her disbelief obvious. “The mage that has been hiding in a village as a midwife proposed an executable war strategy? Let’s hear it then.”

Taking a deep breath to prepare himself, Viktor nods and launches into an explanation of Yuuri’s idea. He glosses over the parts that need more refinement but doesn’t try and mask over how incredibly dangerous the plan would be to execute. Knowing Mila, she’ll be able to connect the dots between anything Viktor purposefully leaves out and be much more unwilling to let the plan move forward if she learns he was intentionally hiding details. As he talks, he keeps his gaze on her, hoping for any hints on how the idea is being received but throughout the entire explanation, her face is unreadable, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Well…what do you think?” he prods when he’s run out of things to say.

“I think it’s just short of madness. They’ll never go along with this.”

Viktor knew the moment Yuuri finished describing the idea that the plan is bold to the point of insanity. And yet… “We don’t have any other options with this high a chance of success.”

“Of course we don’t. It was a little difficult to come up with a good plan for taking on their mage when we were operating under the assumption that Yuuri wouldn’t be a reliable option.”

“So, our alternative is to use him as a crutch in an all-out battle?” Viktor asks. “You didn’t see what that did to him last time, Mila. He’s not a mass killing machine.”

Mila purses her lips, drumming her fingers on the surface of her desk. Instead of pressing her original point, she switches gears. “That doesn’t change the fact that this plan is too risky. If one thing goes wrong and you die, Kiev is ruined.”

“It will be ruined when the snows melt anyway. This kingdom is dying, Atreides is a disease on its edge, chipping away at it every second. If you and I, if the best minds in our council, have been unable to come up with an alternative then we don’t have one. There is no use prolonging Kiev’s suffering just because we are too scared to take a risk.”

Dropping his gaze, Mila flicks her eyes over Viktor’s shoulder, her voice tight in her response. “This is your life we’re talking about, Viktor. You aren’t some random soldier that we can replace, you are our king.”

“I am the best swordsman in this country. Such a mission needs only the best.” Viktor leans forward in his seat, heart hammering in his chest, acutely aware of how critical the result of this conversation is for the kingdom’s future. “This can work, but only with your support.”

There is a long pause, a heavy silence as he knows Mila turns over every word he’s said in defense of the plan. Turns over every detail he presented to her, walks back through the hour to when he first arrived at her office door, eyes bright with the hope Yuuri gave him for his birthday, body tense with nerves over how Mila would take the news.

Then, she swears—softly, under her breath—before swearing again, fist crashing on the desk between them. “Everything. How can we possibly lose everything in the course of a single year? Our parents, our freedom—or what little of it we had before becoming the heads of our houses. Our kingdom, our lives? Just this time, last year, we had all the hope in the world. And now we’ve lost so much, and you want to risk so much more because of the words of a man you didn’t know a year ago.”

“Yuuri worked tirelessly to come up with this plan.”

A hollow laugh leaves Mila and she finally meets his gaze once again. This time, there’s nothing but cool calculation in it, as if her eyes are free of the emotions wrought over her face.

“Sometimes it gets tiring to have your predictions be correct,” she muses, as if the words aren’t meant for Viktor at all. “I knew for a while that Yuuri would either make Kiev stronger than ever or bring her, and you, crumbling down. I just didn’t think it would be such a decisive stroke.”

Viktor opens his mouth to argue in Yuuri’s defense and is halted by a single finger, raised in the air to stall him.

“I will back your proposal of this strategy to the council, I will provide all of my support into the execution of this plan, but if Yuuri comes back to this castle without you, I will not save him from the wolves of this court.” There is not a trace of a bluff in Mila’s face as she says this, and Viktor thinks the temperature in the room might have dropped several degrees. “But, in order for this to work, you have to stop doing things halfway. Are you our king? Or are you still relying on Isidora to save you from your heart? It all rests on you now, Viktor, you can no longer play games or favor someone who has sworn no loyalty to you or our kingdom. Your job is to command his loyalty without promising your own. I will do my job, I expect that you will do yours.”

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Viktor murmurs, “I know. And I thank you for being honest with me, Mila. We’re going to get Kiev out of this mess, together. We won’t lose it all.”

She gives him a slightly sad smile. “You mean that, I know you do, but you have always had a soft heart. No matter how much you mean it, no matter how good your intentions are, how can you be sure that you will put anything above your love?”

The question is suffocating, the tower office is suffocating, the crown on his head is much too heavy to bear. Mila’s question is more than a fair one, Viktor has made a habit of prioritizing Yuuri’s safety at times when a better king would not have hesitated to push him aside. He doesn’t know if the draw he feels toward Yuuri is love, and he isn’t sure he wants to spend time unraveling his emotions and searching for an answer when no good will come out of either result.

“Regardless of my feelings for Yuuri, there are thousands of people relying on me to act quickly and decisively to save Kiev, and that is what I will do, with your help.”

Mila studies him carefully and nods slowly. “I believe you. Do you already know how you plan to pitch this to the council?”

Shoving thoughts of loyalties and feelings and anything else that might be a distraction aside, Viktor nods. “It will be tricky to put this plan into play, we’ll need to convince Yakov and Lilia first, and then pull together the team needed for the attack.”

“You don’t have a plan at all, do you?”

Viktor gives her a wry smile. “We’ll deal with the council later.”

She sighs and slumps back in her seat. “I think I’d rather deal with the council first instead of Yakov and Lilia. They’re going to eat me alive.”

“You?”

“For not talking you out of this idea. I’m supposed to be the reasonable one.”

Quirking an eyebrow at that, Viktor decides to let the comment slide without arguing, well aware that he’ll have his fill of arguments by the time this whole ordeal is finished. And, as it turns out, Mila’s statement isn’t far off from the truth: at least, the truth as it concerns Viktor’s old training masters because Yakov and Lilia do not take the news well.

“How the hell did you even manage to talk your nonsense into Mila’s head? She’s the reasonable one,” Yakov’s comment is muttered, almost as if it is more for himself than for Viktor to answer, his fingers rubbing at his forehead as if warding off a headache.

Scowling, Viktor glances at the small group gathered in his Mila’s office. Taking in Mila’s smug ‘I told you so’ expression, Yakov’s annoyed resignation, and even Lilia’s air of exasperation. “When did everyone decide Mila is the reasonable one? Am I the only one who remembers her bratty youth?”

“At least she grew out of it, which is more than we can say for you,” Yakov replies. “This plan is borderline suicidal, Viktor.”

“So was marching to war against a force twice our size, but we did it and we won.”

“Might you be putting too much stock in this mage of yours?” Lilia asks, not unkindly as she cradles a teacup in her hands. “No matter how skilled at swordplay you are, if Katsuki doesn’t come through you’ll be left to face the mage without the restraints of the prince.”

Viktor opens his mouth to immediately deny the suggestion and hesitates. Just as Mila had said, he knows he has been making a habit of putting faith in Yuuri—a practice most would call foolhardy for someone in his position, a practice he might have laughed at himself for doing just five years ago.

Tilting his head back, Viktor studies the ceiling in thought before replying, each word leaving his mouth slowly as he seriously considers the question. “I…am putting faith in Yuuri, but no more faith than I would put in any other comrade that I went into battle with. There were parts of his original plan that I have already discarded as too dangerous or not being well thought out and I am bringing it to you three first because I rely on your skill and experience to refine the rough patches where he is lacking in strategy.” Looking back at the group, Viktor shakes his head. “Either Yuuri can handle the mage or he cannot but given how often he undervalues himself I am inclined to believe him if he seriously thinks he can win.”

“You’re making it sound much simpler than it is,” Yakov snaps, glare rounding on Mila. “You should have shut this down the moment it left his mouth.”

Throwing her hands up in defeat, Mila replies, “I _tried_. You know how he gets when he’s stubborn about something. If this didn’t actually have a chance at working I would have stopped it before we got to this point.”

Clearing her throat with a pointed look at Yakov, Lilia puts her cup down. “There is…a reasonable chance of this plan being successful, which is more than we can say for all other proposals up to this point. Provided the correct people are selected to execute it, it will likely be our best option.”

“You too?” Yakov asks.

Lilia shrugs. “Young as he is, Viktor is our king which makes him the commander of this kingdom’s armed forces. Either he was well-trained as a knight and a commander for these times or we failed as teachers.” The ghost of a smile plays around her lips as she meets Viktor’s gaze. “Perhaps it is our turn to sample some of this ‘faith’ that seems to have been restored in him.”

Shaking his head, Yakov mutters, “I think hopelessness is a more accurate reasoning for this insanity but who am I to defy the king.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “So, who will be joining you on this matter?”

 

* * *

 

The crackle of the fireplace isn’t nearly as steady as Yuuri is used to.

Heat ebbs and flares, accompanied by abrasive ‘pops’ when amber pockets in the wood are exposed to the flames. At its core, this particular fire seems less at home in the comfortable palace room than it would be in the middle of a forest blaze. The unusual flickering of the flame is accompanied with muttered curses and grunts that Yuuri only pays half-an-ear to as he works.

With his glasses on the table in front of him, Yuuri’s vision is an explosion of bright colors. Gold pools around his hands and up his arms with an intensity that almost makes it difficult to pay attention to the task at hand. The embroidery hoop in his lap swims in a gentle lilac, its wooden frame imbued with charms by its crafter so many years ago. With each pass of needle and thread, the design Yuuri stitches into the small stretch of fabric glows a brighter gold, his magic strengthened and fortified by the runes he hides in the picture.

Beside him, the fire flares again, flames licking angrily around the edge of the hearth and sparks threatening to set fire to the carpets covering the stone floors. Pausing his stitching, Yuuri glares at the fireplace in a silent warning to behave. As abruptly as it flared, the fire dies back down to a gentle flame as if nothing happened, and Yuuri lets out a soft snort of derision.

He glances at the squire kneeling in front of the hearth. “Time for a break, Yuri.”

With another muttered curse, Yuri pushes himself to his feet and stumbles back from the fireplace. His face is flushed pink from proximity to the heat and streaks of soot stand out in his hair. A scowl is prominent as he says, “That fire hates me, I’m sure of it.”

Biting back a smile (aware that it will just make Yuri’s temper worse), Yuuri shrugs. “You are being a little antagonistic. Most people don’t make friends that way.”

“It’s a fire! What does it want me to do? Invite it hunting?”

“It wants respect.”

Yuri’s scowl deepens. “This is my fourth lesson and you’ve said the exact same thing every time. Can’t you give me any other advice?”

Shrugging again, Yuuri says, “There isn’t anything more for me to say, that’s the entire technique. Either you’ll understand it and have the aptitude to apply it or you don’t.”

“How old were you when you learned?”

“Five.”

“Fuck.” Yuuri gives him a dry look for the exclamation. Not looking apologetic at all, Yuri slumps back in his seat, watching Yuuri work in silence for several minutes before speaking up again. “I’m never going to be able to do this, am I?”

Putting down his work, Yuuri tilts his head thoughtfully. “What makes you say that?”

“This is something you learned when you were a third my age, not to mention you even said you weren’t sure someone without magic could learn it. I’m not getting anywhere.”

“I wouldn’t have you keep coming back if you weren’t getting anywhere. You are making progress, even if you can’t see it.”

Yuri scoffs, “You don’t have to coddle me.”

“I’m not.” Leaning forward, Yuuri catches the squire’s gaze, making sure the boy can see how sincere he is being. “Yuri, when have you ever seen a fire react like this to anyone? The fact that it is responding to you, even negatively, means you have a chance at being able to master this skill. If it was completely ignoring you then I would have told you to give up a while ago.” When there doesn’t seem to be a sign of Yuri immediately arguing back, Yuuri picks his work back up, dropping his gaze to the pattern. “Besides, it took me almost a month of practicing every day to figure out how to talk to water, you haven’t spent nearly as much time.”

There isn’t a reply as Yuuri picks up his needle and starts stitching. He can feel Yuri’s gaze on him as he works but he pays it little mind. Either Yuri will rest for a few more minutes before trying his hand at the technique again or Yuri will decide to give up completely. Yuuri can’t say he has an invested interest in either outcome, so he lets Yuri puzzle through his thoughts in silence so that he can concentrate on the intricate spellwork at hand.

Yuuri rarely uses embroidery for charms. It’s more time-consuming than bending metal into shape or weaving thread, a misplaced stitch can diminish the strength of the magic or ruin the charm altogether. For the charms he sold in his shop, embroidery just wasn’t worth the trouble.

However, the magnified effect of the magic that comes from weaving the spellwork into the stitching patterns can’t go ignored, and the subtlety of such charms is also helpful. For the purpose of this particular project, Yuuri can’t fathom using any other option, not when he wants the greatest chance at success as he possibly can.

“Oi, storyteller.” Yuuri hums in acknowledgment of Yuri’s call. “Something is going on, something big.”

Yuuri glances up at the squire, taking in the hard edge in Yuri’s gaze. Yuri didn’t actually ask Yuuri a question but Yuuri knows exactly what the boy is after.

It has been a week since Viktor’s birthday, a week since Yuuri presented his idea to the young king, and he’s hardly seen a hair of Viktor since. From what he’s heard around the castle, Viktor has been locked in long meetings so private that they aren’t even attended by servants. Yuuri can only assume Viktor is trying to pitch his plan to the various decision-makers in the castle, can only guess at how much resistance Viktor has been met with considering the risks of the idea.

If Viktor hasn’t told Yuri about the plan, he probably has a good reason for it. At the same time, Yuuri clearly remembers the hurt expression that had flickered across the squire’s face when he tried to keep Yuri in the dark about the enemy mage.

Throwing caution to the wind, Yuuri says, “Nothing is going on, yet. There’s a possible idea in the works that might help us win the war, but I’m pretty sure Viktor has to convince all of his councilors that it is worth the risk.”

“Risk? We’re at war, what could possibly be so bad about it that they would drag their feet?”

“It would put Viktor behind enemy lines.”

Yuri’s eyes widen and he sits bolt upright in his seat. “You’re joking.” Yuuri shakes his head. “That’s insane, why would he even consider that?”

“Viktor would consider anything if it gives this kingdom a chance at survival. He’s a good king that way.”

“Which is exactly why it would be dumb for him to put himself in unnecessary danger. Let’s say the plan works and we win the war but Viktor dies…what happens to Kiev then?”

Yuuri opens his mouth to reply and hesitates, unsure what to say considering that he’s never thought of it that way.

With a pointed nod, Yuri continues, “We’re fucked. That’s what happens. So, you’d better not let that happen, Katsuki.”

“Me?”

“Someone needs to take care of the mage and you’ve been obsessing over those charms for days. You’re part of the plan, aren’t you?”

Slowly, Yuuri nods. “I’m not sure I should be getting into details about it with you.”

“Then don’t, whatever. Just don’t let that geezer get killed, got it?”

“I won’t.”

Seemingly satisfied with the answer, Yuri pushes himself back onto his feet and stalks over to the fire, pointing a finger at the flames. “And I’m not done with you yet, bastard.”

The flame flares up again in response and Yuuri sighs before pointedly clearing his throat.

“Right, antagonistic, sorry,” Yuri mutters, dropping to a seat in front of the hearth as the fire quiets too.

Shaking his head with amusement, Yuuri turns his focus back to his work, letting the crackling of the temperamental fire and the mutterings of the temperamental squire fade into the background. Fingers moving meticulously, Yuuri stitches his magic into the pitch-black fabric, only able to clearly visualize the picture he is forming due to the gold light of his magic coating each section of used black thread. To the mundane eye, it is almost impossible to see that any embroidery is on the fabric; it is Yuuri’s Sight (stronger than ever thanks to Seung-gil’s tutoring) that reveals the image of flower petals floating across the fabric, carried by wisps of wind.

A knock sounds on the door just as Yuuri makes the final touches to his needlework. Weaving in the dangling ends, he asks, “Yuri, can you answer that?”

The squire mutters a complaint but gets to his feet and crosses the room. As Yuuri ties off the last end, he hears Yurio snap, “What are you doing here, old man?”

“Visiting Yuuri,” Viktor’s voice floats from the corridor. “What are _you_ doing here? You look like you’ve been rolling around in the ashes.”

Yuri scoffs. “You’re not the only person in this damn castle that can talk to the storyteller.” Glancing over his shoulder he makes eye-contact with Yuuri, the glint in his gaze hard (and if Yuuri has ever had doubts that the young man will follow through on the promises for these lessons, he has no reason to doubt now). “I’m going to go before Viktor starts making that stupid face.”

Ignoring Viktor’s question of: “What stupid face?”, Yuuri raises a hand to wave goodbye to the squire. “See you later. Remember what I said about it taking time to get right.”

“Whatever.” Yuri steps around Viktor and leaves.

Half-turning to watch his squire go, Viktor frowns thoughtfully. “He never said why he has soot all over his face. What’s that about?”

Stifling a sigh, Yuuri carefully extracts his finished charm from its wooden hoop. He has had his fill of lying to Viktor and isn’t sure he could pass off a lie to the other man without feeling disgusted with himself, but habits are difficult to break and Yuuri’s spent years making a habit out of being as secretive as possible. Despite not actively hiding his lessons with Yuri from Viktor, he certainly hasn’t made any effort to share their existence to anyone. It’s easier to manage if as few people know what Yurio is attempting as possible, it prevents Yuuri from having to fight for the ability to control who learns the technique.

The fact that Yurio hasn’t told Viktor yet is unsurprising. A direct order from his knight-master and king would be all but impossible for Yuri to ignore, and without Yuuri present to diffuse any misunderstandings or field any demands it would likely turn into an uncomfortable confrontation. As such, Yuuri knew this conversation would happen eventually, he just didn’t expect it to be so soon.

“Close the door and sit down, I’ll explain it to you,” he says as he holds his finished piece up to the light, inspecting it to make sure nothing was forgotten.

Viktor does as he asks, closing the door and crossing the room. Instead of taking the seat across from Yuuri, he stops in front of Yuuri’s chair, holding out a questioning palm. With a small smile at Viktor’s never-ending curiosity when it comes to Yuuri’s magic, Yuuri passes the square piece of fabric over to him.

Running his fingers over it, Viktor’s eyes widen. “I thought it looked a little bumpy. There’s stitching on this?” Yuuri nods. “Why stitch black thread into black fabric? It’s almost invisible.”

Smile widening, Yuuri leans back in his seat so he can meet Viktor’s gaze without craning his neck. “That’s the point. The spell in that charm is intended to make its user go unnoticed. It’s not invisibility, but it’s helpful if you’re trying to go somewhere undetected.”

Letting out a low whistle, Viktor passes the charm back to Yuuri. “There are so many ways to use magic that I never could have imagined. Mila would love to get her fingers on one of these.”

Putting the charm in a pile with the two others already finished, Yuuri shrugs. “I’m assuming she’ll be part of the advance team if my idea gets approved, which means one of these already has her name on it.”

Viktor nods, glancing over his shoulder to look at the fire (now at a steady blaze). “So, what had Yurio covered in cinders?”

“He was arguing with the fire.”

Blue eyes flick back to Yuuri, the beginnings of a smile playing on Viktor’s lips as if he expects a joke. Slowly, the smile fades away into confusion as Viktor realizes that Yuuri is being serious until he finally speaks. “Arguing with the fire?”

“When I tell stories for festivals with the elements, I’m not using magic so much as a technique passed down through my family line. Yuri asked if he could learn it, so I’m teaching him.”

Viktor’s eyes are wide now, his gaze hopping between Yuuri and the flames as if he’s trying to picture the lessons in question. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible—a safety precaution against possible eavesdroppers outside of the door. “You can teach anyone how to handle the fire?”

“Almost anyone,” Yuuri corrects, “can be given the tools to communicate with the elements. It’s hard to say what determines if the elements will listen.” Before Viktor can ask, he rushes on to say, “but it can be a dangerous skill, in the wrong hands. That’s why no one outside the Katsuki line was ever taught the technique. I don’t want this to become another tool of warfare.”

Immediately, the expression on Viktor’s face softens and he turns away from the hearth. Sinking to his knees so that they’re on eye-level, Viktor murmurs, “I wish everyone could see how good you are, Yuuri.”

Feeling heat on his cheeks, Yuuri drops Viktor’s gaze. “I’m not that good.”

“Don’t make me list all the wonderful and selfless things you’ve done since we met, solnishko, it might take all evening and then I won’t even get to tell you about how I managed to convince the people that matter to go forward with your plan.”

The tail-end of Viktor’s sentence sneaks in as a surprise and Yuuri’s eyes fly back up to meet Viktor’s. “The council approved it?”

Viktor hums. “I said the people that matter, and what matters next is pulling a team together. Are you still sure you want to do this?”

An image of mutilated lips, the memory of a mage so power-hungry that she abandoned all traces of her own humanity, flashes across Yuuri’s mind. With it, he can hear the otherworldly voice, slithering through his mind as it did the night he was confronted by the other mage, as it has done regularly since then. He hears the order for a retreat, the promise of retaliation if Yuuri doesn’t back down. That is what awaits him if this plan moves forward any more.

But Yuuri is done running away.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he nods. “I’m sure.” Taking a deep breath, he adds, “but, I’m scared.”

“You’d be a fool if you weren’t, but you also don’t have to carry that burden in silence. I may not understand the stakes or the intricacies of what you’re sacrificing, of what you will be facing, but I can always listen to your fears so they don’t swallow you whole.” Reaching out, Viktor cups Yuuri’s cheek, cradling the skin so gently that Yuuri thinks he might melt from the gesture. “When I was at my lowest point, and I tried to push everyone away to suffer in silence, you didn’t let me. I want to be there for you in the same way.”

His words flow over Yuuri like a gentle stream, surrounding him completely. It almost hurts. Deep in his chest, Yuuri thinks he can feel slight pain from how it feels like his ribs have constricted around his heart, trying to prevent it from drowning in the tide that is Viktor Nikiforov.

It is so easy, it is too easy, to lose himself in these quiet moments, in these times when it’s just the two of them and the emotions that swirl between. It’s easy to forget their situations: that Viktor is a king and that Yuuri is no one. It’s easy to imagine a cottage out in a quiet village where Yuuri could sell his charms with Viktor there to help mind the shop and share his enthusiasm with customers.

“Yuuri,” Viktor’s voice pulls Yuuri from his thoughts, “will you tell me what has been bothering you since we marched back?”

The question comes as a surprise. Given how much occurred the day of the battle, Yuuri assumed his concerns about that particular night were well-masked by the horror of his use of magic. No one has said a word to Yuuri to indicate suspicion at what else might be on his mind, but somehow Viktor noticed and kept his thoughts to himself, waiting for Yuuri to be ready to open up. And Viktor’s face is so earnest, his words so sincere, that Yuuri finds himself talking, revealing the memory he’s refused to voice out loud—afraid that acknowledging it will make it more real.

“The night after the battle, I met the enemy mage,” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to force away the unbidden memory of the surge of fear that overtook him at the moment. “She came into camp, into my tent, while I was asleep. She could have killed me.”

The hand at his cheek moves, sliding down to squeeze Yuuri’s shoulder in reassurance. “But she didn’t, you’re alive, Yuuri.”

“I know, I know, it’s just…” squeezing his eyes tighter, Yuuri silently curses the tears that threaten to well up in his eyes. “I was so vulnerable. My magic was depleted, I was having convulsions every five minutes, and she was _there._ She told me to walk away from the conflict, to leave Kiev behind so she could continue her work. But the worst part was her mouth.”

“Mouth?”

Nodding, Yuuri explains, “It was sewn shut, with thick black thread.”

A hitch of breath makes it clear that Viktor is just as horrified by the concept as Yuuri had felt. “Why would she-”

“Repayment.” Yuuri cuts off Viktor’s question, blinking his eyes open. “You remember what I told you that night? About the Law of Equivalent Exchange?”

“All magic operates on an exchange and-” Viktor lets out a soft gasp, pausing in his recitation of Yuuri’s lesson. “-and taking a life requires an extreme payment. What could she have done to warrant such a payment?”

“I don’t know, I don’t want to know. But that’s what we’re up against, Viktor. A complete disregard for human life and years of experience in killing people, I’m scared that I’ll hold back, that I won’t be able to do what it takes.”

Gentle tugging on his arm urges Yuuri out of his seat and down onto the floor, settling in a tangle of limbs where he is half on top of Viktor’s lap. An arm wraps around his waist, holding him steady, grounding Yuuri, making this moment real and pushing the memories away.

“That fear is important, Yuuri, that’s what makes you so good.”

Hesitantly, Yuuri reaches out, picking up Viktor’s free hand to intertwine their fingers, staring at their connected hands as he murmurs, “How do you do it?”

His question is vague, but the tone in his voice, the subject of their conversation, provides Viktor all the context he needs. A soft sigh leaves the older man. “If someone wants to become a knight they can enter the training program at age eleven, and then our training masters do everything in their power to turn that boy into a polished warrior, someone who will be able to protect the kingdom. As crown prince, I started learning how to fight earlier.” A wry smile curls onto Viktor’s lips. “I first picked up a practice sword when I was six. Granted, it was carved out of wood and couldn’t do more than give someone an ugly bruise, but that’s when I started learning.

“The thing about learning to be a knight, that you don’t realize until it’s too late, is that you’re learning how to kill: with a sword, with bow and arrows, with a spear, with your bare hands. It’s drilled into your body so thoroughly that by the time you’re in a life or death situation it’s an instinctive reaction, you kill so that you can survive. But that doesn’t make it any easier.” Viktor lifts their combined hands, pressing a kiss to the back of Yuuri’s. “You don’t want it to get easier, solnishko, the fact that it’s hard is what makes you different from her.”

“But if I hesitate-”

“I believe in you,” Viktor says it like it is the simplest thing in the world, like his belief is absolute. There’s a confidence in his response that Yuuri clings too—if Viktor can be so confident in him, perhaps Yuuri can do the same for himself.

It won’t erase his doubts, his fears can’t be pushed away with a single conversation, but it makes Yuuri feel just a little bit lighter. It makes it easy to smile in response to Viktor’s declaration, to curl his other hand in soft silver locks, to press a chaste kiss to Viktor’s lips—featherlight and fleeting and just a little painful as his chest tightens even more.

“Thank you for believing in me.”

Smiling, Viktor replies, “You make it easy.”

As nice as the sentiment is, Yuuri can’t help but point out, “I think continually lying to you doesn’t fall under ‘making it easy’.”

“When we met we were both lying about who we were,” Viktor counters, “but you still believe in me.”

“Yes, but…” Yuuri trails off, not quite able to think of a suitable argument.

“And I can’t really picture the life you’ve had, always on the run from an enemy you can’t name, but you were trying to protect yourself. I’m not mad at you for that. Maybe it’s time you forgive yourself?” Yuuri purses his lips, not sold on the idea but lacking the proper words with which to disagree. Viktor catches the expression and shakes his head in bemusement. “You forgave me so easily when I behaved poorly after my mother’s-” he cuts off and Yuuri can feel the lingering hurt that Viktor has been masking ever since the queen’s death, “-after the mess with the banquet celebration. You deserve the same grace for yourself.”

It’s hard for Yuuri to accept Viktor’s words even if he knows they make much more sense than being hard on himself at every turn. Still, he gives a slight nod in concession. Even if it’s impossible for him to change his mindset overnight, having someone else point out the facts that Yuuri turns a blind eye to has always been helpful. It’s something Minako and Phichit have done for him before, something Yuuri has tried to be better at doing for himself.

Suddenly, Viktor gasps and Yuuri is jolted out of his thoughts to stare curiously at the other man. “Yuuri! I just remembered something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” At Yuuri’s nod, he continues, “when is your birthday?”

The question is so benign and such a contrast from their previous conversation that it takes Yuuri a little bit to process. When he does, he frowns, wondering why his birthday matters at such a time. “A little less than a month before yours. Why?”

Viktor’s eyes widen and he looks, for lack of a better word, horrified. “It already passed?”

“Yes.” Yuuri shrugs. “I never make much of a fuss about it.”

“But _Yuuri,_ ” Viktor drags out the vowels in Yuuri’s name in a whine, “I didn’t get you anything for your birthday!”

Fighting back a smile at how upset Viktor sounds, Yuuri says, “Well, you did give me those skates and took me ice skating.”

“That was your Yule present.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. “It was almost a month early and you got me five other gifts.” When Viktor opens his mouth to argue again, Yuuri presses a single finger against Viktor’s lips to hush him. “You didn’t know because I never talk about it, and I’ve had a hard time celebrating my birthday ever since my family died. Let’s call the skates a birthday present and if it really bothers you just remember next year.”

A shadow passes over Viktor’s face, there and gone too quickly for Yuuri to be positive it was present at all. Thankfully, Viktor seems to accept Yuuri’s reasoning, a smile gracing his features. “Next year, then.”

The promise is murmured, almost inaudible over the crackling of the fire, and Yuuri knows that Viktor’s thoughts mirror his own at this moment. He can tell that they are both worrying over the same question. Will there be a next year?

He hasn’t decided what he’ll do after the war is over, Yuuri has been actively avoiding thinking about his future. For now, he’s completely focused on making sure that mage won’t be able to do more harm, focused on stopping her before her ambitions become too destructive. For now, his attention is devoted to helping Viktor find a way out of this war in one piece.

And he’s happy in the present. Happy with the casual intimacy he has with Viktor, with the comfort he’s found in the other man. Thinking about walking away from it is enough to make Yuuri’s stomach churn violently and, just as he has for the weeks, he pushes such thoughts away now.

For now, he’s here, with Viktor, and that’s where he wants his focus to stay.

Mustering a smile, Yuuri brushes silver locks away from Viktor’s face so he can clearly see both of Viktor’s eyes: enamored by the clarity of their blue. “Remember when you promised to tell me about the time you were almost thrown from your horse in the middle of that hunting trip with delegates?”

Viktor groans, dropping his head so it rests on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Must we discuss that embarrassment now?”

“You promised,” Yuuri repeats, grinning. “I tell you stories all the time, Viktor.” Something is mumbled into the fabric of his tunic and Yuuri cranes his neck. “What was that?

Turning his head just enough that his mouth is no longer pressed against Yuuri’s shoulder, Viktor repeats, “Vitya. Call me Vitya.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen at the request. Diminutives are widely used in Kiev, even Yuuri has been called various nicknames by friendly customers despite not being native. However, they’re not common among the nobility. The familiarity is taken more seriously among the upper-class, an honor only bestowed on family and almost never used in public.

Wracking his memory, Yuuri thinks the last person he heard call Viktor by this particular name was the late queen. He _has_ heard Christophe and Mila use it, but only outside the palace when they seemingly thought they wouldn’t be overheard.

There’s a weight to Viktor’s request that makes Yuuri’s chest feel a little bit tighter, but he can’t find it in himself to say no, especially not when ‘Vitya’ is how he knew Viktor first, when that free and open side of Viktor is what he likes seeing the most.

Smiling at the wall, Yuuri replies, “Only if you’ll tell me that story.”

Viktor lets out another groan but lifts his head, a matching smile making any embarrassment he might feel seem inconsequential. “Fine. A promise is a promise.”

Softly, Viktor launches into the story, the smile still playing around his lips and a faint blush high on his cheeks as he dives into the details of one of his more graceless moments. Yuuri lets the words roll over him, lets himself relax into the familiar timbre of Viktor’s voice and the warmth of Viktor’s proximity.

For now, this is all he needs to focus on, and Yuuri is more than happy about that.

 

* * *

 

Formal meetings taking place in the king’s personal sitting room are more than unusual, they are unheard of.

From her seat angled toward the door, Mila surveys the room from underneath her eyelashes, careful to keep her face from betraying any of her thoughts. Her gaze eventually settles on the man in question—Viktor is standing by the door, speaking softly to Christophe as they wait for the rest of the meeting party to arrive. Pastries, juice, and tea sit on the table before her but Mila pays the snacks little mind as she considers the situation at hand.

Viktor has always been an extremely private person, letting only the people he’s closest to into his space. Despite having grown up in the palace, around him, Mila has only been invited inside a handful of times. (Though igniting palace gossip by hanging around his chambers is the last thing Mila has ever been interested in.) By virtue of being the heir to the throne, his entire life was under heavy scrutiny and his chambers were the only place where he is free from that pressure.

The fact that he is hosting a meeting here, of all places, is extremely telling.

There aren’t any servants here, Viktor prefers to take care of himself. That means the chances of a palace servant under the pay of any of the snakes in the council overhearing the details of their discussion are almost nonexistent. It also means that it can be dismissed as a casual get-together—just a few friends swapping stories—if anyone questions Viktor about it.

Mile can’t quite dismiss the irony of a king sneaking around within his own palace. There is a reason Kiev doesn’t have an absolute monarchy: the power resting in the council could potentially save the kingdom from a horrible monarch. However, with so many individuals focused on their own political gains and losses, monarchs that have the best intentions at heart are often stifled unless they’re willing to play a little dirty.

Running her gaze over the young king, Mila doesn’t bother to suppress a smile. Isidora knew exactly what she was doing when she raised her son, knew exactly what kind of world she was preparing him for. Somehow, the late queen reared a man intelligent and shrewd enough to survive the cutthroat politicians that fill his court but also kind-hearted enough to not get corrupted by the environment of such a lifestyle.

At a knock on the door, Viktor breaks away from his conversation with Christophe to answer. Catching the knight’s attention, Mila throws a wink his way that has an impish smile curling onto the man’s expression. He crosses over to where she sits, dropping into the seat beside her with the charming smile that Mila knows for a fact has made more than one noble swoon.

“You look like you would rather be anywhere else in the world,” Christophe teases, picking up a pastry and tearing a small piece off to lob into his mouth.

“Chris, you’ve never been able to tell what was on my mind and you shouldn’t start trying now.” Mila’s voice is dry even as a bemused smile plays around her lips. “I was just thinking, and sitting here certainly beats drowning in paperwork in my office.”

“It must be exhausting to hold such an important position in our king’s court.”

“I couldn’t say seeing as, out of the two of us, I am not his glorified babysitter.”

Christophe laughs. “That implies that he actually listens to me when I have a comment about his security.”

Rolling her eyes, Mila points out, “He has always been willing to listen to you about his security, regardless of how stubborn he is.”

“Except for the times when I mention he really should be taking a guard with him when he and Yuuri vanish from public areas of the castle.”

At the mention of the mage, Mila’s eyes flick back toward the entrance, where the two men in question are standing. They’re too far away for Mila to make out their conversation but she can see their body language easily, can pick out the way Viktor looks more relaxed now that Yuuri is here, the way that they’re both angled toward each other despite the fact that Yuuri’s Ayutthayan bodyguard, Seung-gil, is standing right next to the mage.

“Other than making my job a little bit more complicated, he’s been good for Viktor,” Christophe says, having followed Mila’s line of sight.

She hums thoughtfully but doesn’t comment. Instead, she raises her voice so the trio by the door can hear her. “If we take all night people will start asking questions.”

Viktor glances over at her, the smile that lit his expression at Yuuri’s arrival dimming slightly. Even if he’s not pleased to cut his discussion short, he nods in agreement and motions Yuuri and Seung-gil further into the room to take seats. The king pokes his head out of the room, no doubt telling the guards posted outside that he’s not to be disturbed, before closing and locking the door.

By the time he’s joining the group, Yuuri has taken the seat next to Mila with a soft greeting and poured himself some tea as Seung-gil sits across from him. That leaves the remaining seat, directly across from her, for Viktor, and he takes it with a soft sigh.

“I’m sorry for the late hour and for all the secrecy around this meeting,” he starts, leaning back in his seat as his gaze sweeps the small group. “Mila and Yuuri already know what is going on, but I want to start this by saying there are no expectations here. If, after I explain what is going on, you decide you don’t want to be part of it, I completely understand. There won’t be any judgment or repercussions for taking a step back.”

Christophe quirks an eyebrow, his tone still light-hearted despite his face being all business. “That’s quite the intimidating introduction. What could possibly be so dire that we would back out?”

Viktor’s jaw tightens for a split-second before he admits, “Before the snows thaw, I’ll be taking a select team south to the border. Instead of letting this conflict drag out into battle after battle, this team will eliminate the leadership in the enemy camp. Preferably, the people here in the room would make up the assault team.”

“You want to go behind enemy lines?” Seung-gil asks, eyes narrowed slightly.

Despite all the time she has spent around Yuuri, and the spies she has had keeping an eye on Seung-gil, Mila still doesn’t have a solid grasp of the man’s personality, much less his motives. It’s impossible to tell how Seung-gil feels about the proposal, his tone is monotone, his expression blank.

With a nod, Viktor explains, “When it comes to a battle, Atreides has the upper hand and always will. The only reason we survived the last one was because of Yuuri, and I don’t want to drag him to every battlefield for a drawn-out conflict and Yuuri wouldn’t let me drag him along anyway.” The last sentence is said with a grin thrown in the mage’s direction and it earns a soft laugh from Yuuri. “But the majority of the enemy army is made up of conscripted soldiers, without solid leadership the only reasonable option for the army is to withdraw and regroup. It may just be a holding measure, but it should give us at least a year before they try to invade again.”

Having already asked all of her questions and picked apart every detail of the proposed scheme, Mila feels no need for clarification and since Katsuki is the one who came up with the plan in the first place he also stays quiet. It’s Christophe who asks, his voice thoughtful, “why this group of people in particular?”

“Well, you’re one of the best fighters in the kingdom,” Viktor replies. “And you’ve been watching my back for over a decade. I can trust you and we can anticipate each other’s actions in a combat situation. You there with me is the equivalent of at least three random soldiers.” Blue eyes shift to Mila. “Mila knows more about this threat than anyone else and this sort of a scheme is something she’s an expert at planning and executing. When it comes to working covertly, she’ll be invaluable.” Again, Viktor’s attention shifts and the small smile is back. “Yuuri’s presence is obvious, of course, we need someone to handle the enemy mage and Seung-gil-”

At the name, Mila perks up slightly. When she questioned the inclusion of the bodyguard Viktor replied with vague half-answers regarding Seung-gil having a skill set that might be useful before pointing out that bringing Yuuri anywhere without the guard could potentially strain relations with Ayutthaya (given how protective Prince Chulanont is over the mage). She suspected there was more to the story than what Viktor was telling her.

“-it is my understanding that you know how to travel in all manner of terrains without leaving a trace. We don’t want to give the enemy any hint that we’re coming. Also…” Viktor taps one finger under his eye, “…do you mind?”

Even though Mila has no idea what Viktor is asking about, Seung-gil doesn’t so much as bat an eyelash. Gray eyes flick to Yuuri and one dark eyebrow raises. Yuuri, for some reason, looks sheepish under the scrutiny and he shrugs. “I was explaining how my glasses work and it came up in conversation. Sorry.”

Seung-gil sighs and shakes his head, the corner of his lips twitching in what Mila thinks might be amusement. “I should have anticipated it.” Turning his attention back to Viktor, Seung-gil adds, “it’s not something I actively keep secret, go ahead.”

With a nod, Viktor turns to look at Mila and Christophe. “Seung-gil is also included as a precaution against magic. He has the Sight.”

While little is known about regular magic, the Sight is barely more than a folk tale by many standards. Mila can count on one hand the number of cases of the Sight that have cropped up in Kiev since she was born, and half of those were false reports. By nature of it being a passive ability and completely unnoticeable to normal people, it’s impossible to pick out someone with the Sight unless they self-identify.

Yuuri speaks up now, filling in as an instructor in a way that he has done for anything of magical relation for several weeks now. “It’s highly probable that the mage will have created alarm spells or other charms to ward off intruders or attacks. With my own Sight, I’ll be able to see them but it’s more than likely that the mage and Menelaus won’t be in the same place, so we’ll have to split into groups. If Seung-gil goes with the other group they’ll be able to avoid setting off any magical traps.”

“Handy,” Mila comments, studying Seung-gil in a new light.

“More than,” Christophe adds, “if he decides to join.”

“Join?” Viktor repeats, “does that mean you’re on board?”

Christophe rolls his eyes. “We’ve been friends for too long for me to just walk out on you when you’re so desperate.”

“I’m not desperate.” The protest comes out a little petulant and Mila hides her smile behind a hand. It never got dull watching these particular two men interact.

“Yes, you are,” Christophe replies calmly. “The kingdom’s entire situation is desperate, as the king you share that desperation.”

It’s a somber statement, and Viktor immediately deflates, his eyes dropping to the table between them all. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“And since Mila is sitting here that means she wasn’t able to dissuade you from this incredibly risky idea so I have to come along and make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Scowling, Mila says, “Why is it on me to talk him out of this kind of thing?”

“Because you’re the one he’ll actually listen to when he gets stubborn like this.” Christophe shrugs. “Though young Katsuki here might give you a run for your money soon.”

“Young Katsuki is the one who came up with the idea,” Mila mutters.

Christophe lets out a low whistle, turning his gaze on Yuuri (who seems to shrink under the attention). “You are certainly full of surprises. I assume that means you’ll definitely be part of the team?”

Determination fills Yuuri’s face. It’s a familiar expression for Mila. She remembers seeing it when they first met and Yuuri refused to answer any of her pointed questions without putting up a fight. She remembers seeing it while Yuuri lectured Viktor for his treatment of Romanov immediately after the old mage died. She remembers seeing it mere seconds before Yuuri risked his own limbs to break open the mystery chest they found in Romanov’s office. This expression, more than anything Yuuri might say or do after, is what gives Mila the last boost of confidence she needs to fully support the plan.

There is no doubt in her mind that Yuuri will do everything in his power to make sure the plan works, and with that level of determination, she finds it difficult to imagine any mage overpowering him, regardless of their experience or ability.

Yuuri gives a curt nod. “I will be, and I’ve already started preparing a few charms to help with the mission.”  He glances over at Seung-gil, the determination fading into a slightly rueful expression. “But you’ve only been dragged into this because I decided to turn back instead of returning to Ayutthaya, you don’t have to-”

“I’ll do it,” Seung-gil cuts Yuuri off.

“If you’re just doing it because Phichit told you to keep me safe please don’t worry about it,” Yuuri protests.

Rolling his eyes, Seung-gil says, “I’m doing it because you’re my friend. Besides, if this works it could cripple the Atreides Empire which is in the best interests of Ayutthaya as well.”

“Thank you,” Viktor says, addressing the group as a whole, the sincerity in his voice touching. Mila can only imagine how stressed the older man has been about this conversation. While he could find a replacement if someone said no, it would be exceedingly difficult: the skills represented in the small group are specialized and particular. “It goes without saying, but this will be kept as quiet as possible. No word of what we’re planning should leave this room without my say so.”

Christophe rubs his chin, looking thoughtful. “It’s surprising that such a plan got through that council of yours.”

“Ah, about that…” Viktor begins, only to trail off. For a brief second, he meets Mila’s gaze and she gets struck with the realization that she doesn’t want to hear whatever hair-brained scheme is going to come out of Viktor’s mouth next. She’s helpless to stop it, however, and sits in horror as Viktor admits, “we won’t be informing the council.”

“You can do that?” Yuuri asks, his innocent confusion would be endearing if it weren’t for the massive headache Mila can feel coming.

“No, he can’t,” she sighs, rubbing at the side of her temple. “If, and when, we come back in one piece we’ll both be subject to weeks of outrage from the council, they may summon all of us to give a testimony about it. Honestly, the only reason they won’t be crying for a motion to dethrone him would be because he prevented a drawn-out war.” Fixing Viktor with her driest glare, Mila adds, “but you had better appoint yourself a champion because I can think of at least two members who will immediately declare you incompetent and challenge for the throne.”

Viktor shrugs, eyes hard. “They throw whatever tantrums they want to as long as it means my people will be safe.”

Making a mental note to shift resources around in preparation for the spectacular fallout that will happen in court once this plan is uncovered, Mila throws her hands up in surrender. “You’re going to make me go gray at a young age, Viktor.”

“What’s wrong with gray hair?” he asks pointedly.

Not willing to entertain an argument, Mila changes the subject. “Let’s get the basic details out of the way tonight so we can get this moving as soon as possible. Our best window for this to work is in a month, we need to move quickly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: _Beside You_ by Marianas Trench


	23. infiltration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiev goes on the attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg somehow I got this up under the four-week mark, I'm a little bewildered that I managed to do that considering how long this chapter is. 
> 
> [**Fic Playlist** || listen on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/writingfromtheshadows/playlist/2tFxqOfvHL8TnMEsDIkwnq)  
>  This Chapter: Song 21 + 22  
> 

_The setting sun paints the sky in bright pinks and oranges, creating a mosaic of color above him in a way that should be impossible this far into winter. Tilting his head back, Yuuri soaks in the warmth of the last of the sun’s rays, smiling at the comfortable temperature, at the slight breeze that whirls around him, at how peaceful it is._

_Here, in his sanctuary, it is almost possible to forget the frigid temperatures that have chilled him to the bone over the last several weeks. It is almost possible to forget the dull ache in his body from so many consecutive days of hard riding. It is almost possible to forget where his physical being is, to forget the growing anxiety that pooled in his gut over what the small party rode south to do._

_It is almost possible to forget the haunting image of black thread woven in and out pale skin, the dead eyes that had stared him down._

_Even now, in the safety of his dreamscape, Yuuri has to suppress a shudder at the memory of the mage’s voice floating through his skull, seeping into his mind without his permission, leaving doubts and insecurity in its place._

_Over the last month—full of planning for their attack and then making the journey south—Yuuri has been questioned dozens of times about the enemy mage. He has recounted what little he remembers of her appearance outside of the mutilation of her lips, has repeated each word she spoke to him in the dim candlelight after the battle, has explained how her voice is not spoken, how her words are not vocalized._

_Yuuri has not been able to describe the cadence of her speech. He hasn’t been able to articulate the way her silent voice sounds like everything at once and nothing at all in the same breath. How can he describe the way hatred and disdain sounds, the dips and falls of tone that come from arrogance and presumed superiority? What sense does it make for him to say that the mage’s voice is most reminiscent of a deadly winter storm, of the hopelessness a person lost in a blizzard will feel as frostbite nips away at their ligaments, of the unease borne from howling wind as it beats down on your barren face?_

_And why would Yuuri want to say any of that? Why would he want to admit that the enemy mage is frightening, that he still wakes in the middle of the night in a spike of terror at the memory of her ghosting into his tent? Why would he want to shake the confidence the others have in him? The belief that he will be able to go head-to-head with someone like her and come out victorious?_

_Letting out a sigh, Yuuri closes his eyes and forces thoughts of the mage to the wayside._

_This is his dreamscape, his inner mind, his place of peace among all the chaos around him: she does not get to taint this place by occupying his fear here._

_As he centers himself, taking steady inhales and exhales, Yuuri focuses on his magic. It dances underneath his skin, alive and excited, thrumming in anticipation and more noticeable than it ever has been._

_Yuuri has never felt so in tune with his magic, has never quite understood the depth of power that resides within him. It has been many years since he used his powers regularly, since he was practicing his magical control on a daily basis. Despite having fallen out of the habit of such discipline with his magic, Yuuri reapplied himself to the regiment of his childhood, to the toil of constantly pushing his control of his magic to its limits so he can be familiar with the feeling._

_The daily practice has been necessary. For all that Yuuri can be quantified as a Great Mage, he has done little magic other than healing work for nearly a decade and even if the theory of battle magic is simple enough, he cannot hope to win in a fight against another mage on theory alone._

_Even with his new knowledge, with the revolutionary information inside the other mage’s journals, Yuuri is not fool enough to think he can utilize the technique of offered equivalence against the one who invented it without endless hard work. Even in her writings she had made as much clear, had cautioned that a novice in the technique would likely falter in a life or death situation, and that is precisely what Yuuri is facing._

_So, he practiced, focusing on rapid firing his spells, on proposing a repayment in the split-second of time before the magic left his fingertips. He approached Seung-gil for assistance, asking his friend to create drills for Yuuri to work on and spending hours in an abandoned practice room with light dancing around his fingers, his entire body awash in gold._

_And over the course of that time Yuuri thinks he finally understands what Phichit had meant when he described Yuuri as feeling massive. He had felt the extent of his ability, had felt the pure strength of his magic coursing through his veins until Yuuri thought he might just get drunk on it._

_He has spent so many years pretending to be less than he is._

_Yuuri has spent the majority of his life pretending not to be a mage, ignoring the power that sits deep in his center, ignoring the things he could do with just the flick of his fingertips._

_He has spent the majority of his life pretending not to be a Katsuki, forcing away memories of the family he lost, balking away from their legacy, from the duty that fell on his shoulders by virtue of being the last of the line._

_He has played the part of plain Yuuri, basic village healer, for so long that Yuuri forget it was an act, that it became who he was and drove away any part of him that didn’t coincide with that image._

_And he still is that person, Yuuri knows he will never be able to push away who he was for so many years, but he is also more than that._

_He is Katsuki Yuuri, direct descendant of the First Mage. He is a Great Mage, with power in his grasp that many people couldn’t dare to dream of. He is the last living Katsuki mage and the title of Magic Keeper is his right as much as it is his duty._

_Yuuri wonders if he can grab it, if he can prove himself worthy of carrying on the legacy of his mother and their ancestors, of bringing some semblance of order back to magekind, of becoming the protector of magic that he refused to become before this point._

_Blinking his eyes open, Yuuri squints at the dwindling light. The sun has almost completely set, it will be time for him to get some rest soon, to prepare for the battle ahead of him._

_But before he does that he turns and starts walking. Yuuri treks through the dense forest, the greenery making it difficult to see where he is going or where he came from, a stark contrast to the dead vegetation he had been greeted with when he returned to his dreamscape after so many years of avoiding it. Even if it is too late for bird calls, Yuuri makes out other noises, can hear the crunch of leaves and acorns underfoot of larger beasts, can hear the scurry of squirrels as they scramble up the trees. He still never sees the animals, still has more work to do to return this place to its former glory, but just the knowledge of their presence is enough to make Yuuri smile._

_The forest gives away abruptly, opening to the blooming spiral garden. Flowers in all shades wink up at Yuuri, fluttering in the gentle breeze as he follows the path through the garden to his final destination._

_His focus sits on the top of the stone garden bed, its leaves a bright red, the vibrancy of their color just one more piece of evidence of how connected Yuuri has become with his magic._

_Brushing his fingers along the trunk of the bonsai, Yuuri grins at the way light dances over the bark where he came into contact with it. “Quite excited today., I suppose it’s to be expected now that it has come to this.”_

_Tomorrow is the day._

_Either Yuuri will emerge victorious but with the blood of another mage on his hands or he will fail, letting down Viktor and the others, letting down Phichit and Minako, leaving Kiev unprotected from the ambition of the other mage._

_And he can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something. That there is some detail they all overlooked, that could potentially ruin them._

_Pressing his palm to the base of the tree, feeling the thrum of the roots through the damp soil, Yuuri questions, “You don’t know what I’m missing, do you? I can feel it in the corner of my mind but can never catch it.”_

_There’s a pulse of warmth from the tree and a gust of wind rises from nothing, blowing leaves in Yuuri’s face with an intensity that makes him close his eyes._

_A howl sounds behind him, too close and too real to belong to one of the phantom beasts in his forest._

_Whirling on his heel, Yuuri stumbles back, crowding against the stone of the garden bed as he stares at the wolf. Its presence all too familiar here. Its appearance all too recognizable._

_It is as massive as Yuuri remembers it to be, as his nightmares have made it out to be, standing as tall as a small horse, gray fur shining in the remaining sunlight. The empty socket where its right eye should sit is no longer glistening with fresh blood but its left eye is still too intelligent as it stares Yuuri down._

_The wolf that started Yuuri down this road, that would have killed Viktor that late summer day if Yuuri hadn’t been there to give him a warning. The wolf that forced itself into his dreamscape to tell Yuuri to leave Viktor for dead._

_Unlike that time, Yuuri knows this isn’t a projection of the enemy mage but rather a visage made by his subconscious, his focus trying to answer his question._

_Gritting his teeth, Yuuri asks, “What did I forget, then? What about you is so important?”_

_The wolf’s mouth opens and closes, mimicking the pattern of human speech much the way it had during its last appearance in his dreamscape. Unlike that time, no sound comes out, no voice streams from between sharp teeth._

_But Yuuri frowns, the itch in the corner of his mind becoming more prominent as he casts his mind back, trying to remember. Back then, the voice hadn’t been frightening, hadn’t been haunting the way the mage’s was when she spoke to Yuuri face-to-face. In fact, it had been so normal that Yuuri can’t recall what it sounded like._

_That was what he forgot, but why was it important?_

_Dull purple sparkles in front of Yuuri and he glances up at the sky, listening carefully to the world around him. In the distance, he makes out the sound of a door opening and recognizes his time for reflection is over._

_Lifting his hand away from the trunk of the bonsai, Yuuri watches as the wolf fades from sight, frowning even as it disappears._

_When there isn’t a trace of the beast left, Yuuri turns to the bonsai and dips into a slight bow. “Lend me your strength tomorrow.”_

_Gold dances up the trunk of the tree in a clear answer, making the frown on his face melt underneath a small smile. Straightening from his bow, Yuuri takes a deep breath and opens his eyes._

His legs are sore, protesting the position he’s been settled in for what he assumes stretched onto some hours. Slowly, Yuuri shifts out of his seat on the floor, wincing as he does and fervently missing his meditation mat.

Since the small group had to leave quickly and quietly, they were forced to travel light, which in turn forces Yuuri to find the least uncomfortable spot in whatever inn or tavern they settle down in for the night to meditate.

Glancing up at the purple lights that pulled him from his dreamscape, Yuuri quirks an eyebrow at Seung-gil. The other man holds out his hand in offering, hauling Yuuri to his feet as he murmurs, “Mila is back. Viktor wants everyone to meet in his room to go over her information before calling it a night.”

Yuuri flicks his eyes to the candle seated on the small table fitted in the inn’s room, guessing based on the height of the candle that he had been in his dreamscape for nearly three hours. “She’s back early. Is everything okay?”

Seung-gil shrugs. “He didn’t give me any details, just asked me to find you.” Gray eyes scan Yuuri’s face. “Something is bothering you.”

Waving a hand in dismissal, Yuuri starts toward the door, only pausing to pick up his kit on the way. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Those words get people killed,” Seung-gil replies as he follows behind. “Whatever it is, don’t ignore it, we can’t afford that.”

Yuuri nods in acknowledgment of the advice but doesn’t reply as he opens the door, not wanting their conversation to catch the attention of the few others staying in the inn as they walk down the hall to Viktor’s room.

The door is firmly closed when they arrive and Yuuri knocks briefly, only having to wait a moment for the door to crack open and for Christophe’s green eyes to peer into the corridor. With a nod, the knight steps aside, opening the door just far enough for Yuuri and Seung-gil to enter before closing it again, clicking the lock after them.

Glancing around inside, Yuuri notes they’re the last ones to arrive. Viktor is seated on a short stool, his sword unsheathed on his lap, a sharpening stone being passed through his fingers as he murmurs to Mila. Christophe takes the seat on the empty stool next to Viktor, placing his own bare blade on the ground beside him.

Crossing the room, Yuuri leans against the closed window, running his gaze over Mila. Her hair is tied up in a horsetail with rough leather and dirt is dusted over her face in a way that makes her features just a touch more difficult to place. She’s dressed differently than she had been on the ride south, wearing a plain gray dress with an apron around her waist, the patches and holes in the garment horrible for the winter weather but perfect for playing a part.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Mila’s eyes flick to Yuuri and she gives him a slight smile as Seung-gil slides to a seat on the floor next to Yuuri, back against the wall.

Turning back to Viktor she murmurs something else before shifting closer to the center of the bed and opening her body to the rest of the room.

“Obviously, Mila is back earlier than we anticipated,” Viktor begins, his voice just loud enough to be heard within the room without filtering to the hallway. While Yuuri could have cast a silencing charm, everyone in the group agreed that it was best to keep Yuuri’s magic use to the minimum once they were within a day’s ride of their target, both to prevent his presence from being noticed by the other mage and to keep his magic reserves as full as possible. “There weren’t complications that forced her to leave earlier though, so there is no need to be panicked. We’ll move forward as planned.”

Everyone nods at that before eyes turn to Mila, waiting.

Clearing her throat, Mila says, “They’re confident but not complacent. As much as it would be madness for us to launch an attack in the dead of winter, it was madness for them to invade before the snows fell and they did so anyways. The remaining soldiers of the Atreides army are relatively skilled, consisting of Menelaus’ personal regiment and a few thousand conscripted soldiers with significant campaign experience. If an alarm sounds, I firmly believe they’ll be on us in minutes. However, they aren’t on high alert, there was nothing to indicate they are expecting a fight anytime soon, much less an infiltration.”

She holds up the rolled map that they had all thoroughly studied on the ride south. Yuuri quickly learned there were more advantages than he had anticipated to handling the conflict within Kievan borders, one such advantage being that a copy of the blueprints of the manor the Atreides army commandeered from a local lord was kept in the royal palace.

Now, Mila spreads the map before her on the small bed, keeping the corners down with stones. “As a safety precaution, the only people who sleep in the manor are in Menelaus’ top circle or are native citizens to the Atreides Empire. Conscripted soldiers, healers, and so on, are all forced to sleep in the encampment, which means the guards are used to people coming and going. Our best point of entry is going to be the servant’s gate. They know that is their weak spot so it’s guarded well, and the shift change is more frequent there. The only times there is a large mass of people coming in and out are two hours before dawn and sunset.” Looking up from the map, she meets Yuuri’s gaze. “You said you had something to help us get in, right?”

With a nod, Yuuri opens his kit and pulls out one of charms he embroidered at the castle. “I’ll need access to the cloak everyone plans to wear tomorrow so I can sew this into the lining. The charm will misdirect gazes away from the wearer. It won’t make us invisible, but among a crowd we won’t be noticed. You’ll want to be more careful when going through empty corridors, any sort of noise or flashy movement will make the charm effectively useless in such a circumstance.”

Christophe frowns thoughtfully, “What about people who can See magic? Won’t they notice that?”

Wordlessly, Yuuri passes the charm to Seung-gil, who turns it over in his hands, studying it carefully. After a moment, Seung-gil shakes his head, passing the charm back to Yuuri. To anyone else, his voice likely sounds bored but Yuuri thinks he can hear a hint of amusement in Seung-gil’s tone as the other man says, “He was clever with his work. If the charm is sewn someplace where it would not be visible to outside eyes, we’ll be fine.”

“Good, so getting in won’t be a problem,” Mila says, taking control of the meeting once more. “The prince and the mage are housed on opposite ends of the manor, we’ll have to split up the moment we get inside.”

Viktor clears his throat. “Do you know why they stay so far away from each other?”

Mila shrugs. “No one wanted to speak about the mage, they all got nervous when I mentioned anything about her. I get the impression she keeps to herself unless her presence is requested. Either way,” she points at a section of the map on the southeastern end of the manor, “Yuuri and I will make our way to the rooms she has been occupying. We probably won’t come across many people as we make our way there, no one wanted to be near that wing.” Her finger drags across the map to tap a spot on the northwestern end, almost as far apart from the first point as would be possible in the building. “Menelaus will be trickier, he doesn’t keep to one place or one schedule. He’ll likely be in this general vicinity but whether he is in the practice hall, in a meeting room, or in his chambers isn’t predictable.”

“Seung-gil will be able to find him,” Yuuri says.

“What makes you think that?” Mila asks.

“For whatever reason, the mage is invested in him. She’ll be keeping an eye on him which means there should be residual magic for Seung-gil to See.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Mila questions, “Could the same be said about Viktor?”

“The way I practice magic and the way she does are quite different,” Yuuri explains, “I’ve been hiding mine for a decade and I have never cast magic on any of you, that won’t be an issue.”

“So, Seung-gil leads us to Menelaus,” Christophe muses, “Viktor kills him and we book it out of there as fast as possible. Simple enough. Are there any knights to be aware of?”

“Just his second-in-command,” Mila replies, “they seem to be together often and he’s not a slouch. We have to get out with the morning influx at dawn or we’ll be spotted.”

Viktor leans forward, drawing attention to himself as he says, “We’ll have to move quickly and quietly. There is no room for hesitation or for carelessness. If someone gets caught, we might not be able to rescue you so be on top of your surroundings.” After scanning the group to be sure his words were taken seriously, Viktor nods. “We should all get as much rest as possible, we move out the hour before sunset tomorrow.”

There are murmurs of agreement and everyone begins moving, preparing to go back to their own rooms and rest.

“Yuuri, do you have a minute?” Viktor asks before Yuuri can make his way to the door.

Waving Seung-gil off, Yuuri settles back into his place by the window, watching as Mila rolls up the map and hops off the bed and as Christophe sheaths his sword and claps Viktor on the shoulder. Within minutes, they’re left alone, and Yuuri scans Viktor’s face curiously, trying to unravel the reason behind the careful blankness of Viktor’s expression.

Viktor puts his sword and sharpening stone aside and gets to his feet, crossing to where Yuuri stands and pausing just out of reach. Blue eyes rove Yuuri’s face before he sighs, reaches up and pulls a particular charm over his head, holding it out to Yuuri.

Yuuri doesn’t move to take it. Instead, he stares at the charm that he poured his own magic into, that saved Viktor’s life more than once, as it dangles between them, the silver covering it catching in the candlelight.

Slowly, he drags his gaze away from the pendant to meet Viktor’s and murmurs, “They’ll try like hell to kill you as soon as someone recognizes you, and if the mage isn’t where we expect her to be she could kill you if you aren’t wearing that.”

“I debated not telling you,” Viktor says, “because I knew you would argue, I considered just leaving it here until we come back but I’m tired of us hiding things from each other. I’ve already made my decision and I will not be wearing it tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Mila told me what you said about the dagger, that it hurt you when the charm protected me during my duel. You can’t afford to be distracted tomorrow and you can’t afford to be at anything less than full power. This is a handicap for you and none of us can risk that.”

Viktor has a point and Yuuri hates it. Aware that arguing further would be futile, Yuuri holds his hand out, only having to wait for a moment before Viktor lets the charm fall into his grip. Curling his fingers around the circular pendant, Yuuri forces back a wave of anxiety. He hasn’t had to worry about Viktor’s safety from mages since first gifting this pendant to Viktor and the return of that worry is nauseating.

Pushing the charm into a pocket in his kit, Yuuri murmurs, “You have to be careful, then. If Seung-gil tells you you’re dealing with a mage, don’t be stupid. You have to come back alive.”

Smiling slightly, Viktor replies, “I could say the same to you, Yuuri. Come back alive.”

He knows what he’s supposed to say now, knows the expectation is for him to nod and agree and promise to come back alive, but Yuuri isn’t able to form the words. Instead, he glances away from Viktor, staring at the wall as he says, “A battle between mages is dangerous, more dangerous than I think you can comprehend, and I’m not practiced at fighting like you are. If something happens to me-”

“Don’t say that, you’ll be fine.”

“-if something happens to me,” Yuuri presses on as if Viktor hadn’t spoken, voice firmer, “you have to leave me behind. You’re not going to be able to face off with a mage alone and depending on how the battle goes I might not be able to be saved.” Tearing his attention away from the wall, Yuuri meets Viktor’s gaze without flinching, his voice stern as he says, “Promise me, Viktor.”

“Yuuri…” Viktor tries to protest.

“Promise me,” Yuuri repeats.

Viktor’s jaw tightens and, for a moment, Yuuri can see how much Viktor wants to refuse this, how much he wants to argue the point back and forth until the sun is rising and they’ve missed an entire night of sleep. Instead, he gives a curt nod. “Fine, I understand.”

Hearing those words is a weight off of Yuuri’s shoulders. Over the last month of planning for this mission, Yuuri has refused to consider the possibility of losing against the other mage, but he has come to terms with the likelihood of being destroyed with her, of the cost of his repayment killing him where he stands if his offered exchanges are too slow, or of being too injured by her own attacks to be saved.

It isn’t anything he has discussed with Viktor, aware that the conversation would be unpleasant for them both, but it is something he knew he needed Viktor to understand. He needed to make sure Viktor accepts that there are elements of magic that humans can’t interfere with.

A gentle touch under his chin scatters his thoughts, and Yuuri blinks up at Viktor who is suddenly much closer than he remembers. Viktor’s thumb brushes along Yuuri’s bottom lip as blue eyes peer into Yuuri’s own and Yuuri can’t help but briefly wonder if Viktor can see into his soul even if he knows such a thing isn’t possible.

“You have to promise me something too,” when Viktor speaks, his voice is a whisper as if he is afraid someone else might overhear despite them being completely alone.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Yuuri says, “It depends on what the promise is. I won’t make a promise I can’t keep.”

“I know but this is important, it will make it easier for me to focus without being worried about you,” Viktor replies, “I need you to promise me that you won’t give up.”

It’s an odd request and Yuuri quirks an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever she says to you, whatever emotions you have to handle, don’t give into them. Whatever spell you have to cast, whatever magical taboo you have to break, whatever it takes for you to make it back to me in one piece, do it. Don’t think that the both of you going down in flames is an acceptable outcome because I won’t forgive you for that, Yuuri. You can’t promise me that you’ll come back alive, but promise me that you won’t stop fighting to survive.”

Yuuri closes a hand around Viktor’s wrist, unsure if he wants to pull Viktor’s hand away from him or keep the contact as long as possible, unsure how to handle the flood of emotions that wash over him with Viktor’s words. What Viktor is asking isn’t easy, and they both know it, they both know that there is still a large part of Yuuri that wants to put the morals of the Katsuki clan that he grew up with above everything else. Only Yuuri knows that he has been grappling with the question of what he’ll become if he goes through with this.  If he uses his magic for more harm, if he kills another mage, will he be able to live with his own actions when the dust settles? Yuuri isn’t sure.

Viktor must sense his desire to say no because he steps even closer, eyes bright as he says, “Please, Yuuri. Sacrificing yourself isn’t going to be a penance for whatever you do tomorrow but coming back and living and putting your efforts back towards healing and helping the world recover from what that mage has helped create might.”

Letting his eyes flutter shut, Yuuri takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “I promise, I won’t give up tomorrow.”

He hears Viktor’s sigh of relief and it tugs at Yuuri’s heartstrings, makes him wonder just how long Viktor has silently carried the concern over Yuuri’s potential sacrificial play. Those questions vanish with the press of Viktor’s lips to his, every other thought racing through Yuuri’s head comes to a screeching halt at the softness of Viktor’s mouth. And they’ve kissed before, often enough for Yuuri to be comfortable initiating them himself, but the kisses became less frequent as they left the illusion of peace that winter brought and returned to war footing, and Yuuri has never felt anything but happy when they happened.

 _This_ kiss feels sad and Yuuri finds himself torn between wanting to pull away, to run away from the emotion, and never wanting to let Viktor go. In the end, Viktor makes the decision for him, pulling back and pressing a chaste peck to Yuuri’s nose.

“Get some rest, solnishko, we have a long day ahead of us.”

The sadness is present in Viktor’s voice too, as if he somehow knows just how dangerous this will be for Yuuri, as if he has peeked into Yuuri’s head and has seen every horrible and plausible scenario that faces Yuuri the next evening.

Unable to leave on such a note, Yuuri pulls Viktor’s hand away from his face and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss onto the back in much the same fashion Viktor has done to him more times than Yuuri can count.

Smiling as he raises his hand, Yuuri says, “We’ll be fine, we can’t afford to think otherwise.”

Viktor nods, a small smile pulling on his lips in response to Yuuri’s, “You’re right. We’ll be fine.”

“Then rest well, Vitya,” Yuuri squeezes Viktor’s hand gently before letting go and stepping around the other man, leaving the room.

His smile falls when the door swings shut behind him. No matter how many confident words he says, Yuuri can’t ignore the itch in the corner of his memory, the increasingly strong feeling that there is something he hasn’t taken into account.

Perhaps a good night’s sleep will help him remember.

 

* * *

 

Checking his gear for what is likely the hundredth time within the last hour, Viktor tries to ignore the hollow sensation around the base of his throat, the way his neck feels much too light without the familiar weight of Yuuri’s charm dangling beneath his tunic.

The very notion that his body can register the missing weight is ridiculous given that the charm can’t weigh more than the signet ring stowed in a locked chest back in his castle chambers, and Viktor has barely noticed the absence of that particular piece of jewelry.

And while it’s entirely possible that the reason Viktor feels so bare without the small charm around is neck has something to do with the intangible sensation of the magic weaved through the pendant, Viktor knows that the source of his discomfort is simply the loss of security, the understanding that he is once again vulnerable to any form of magical attack with little more than a sword for protection.

When Yuuri gave the charm to him, insisted Viktor wear it the moment it was in his possession, Viktor hadn’t been sold on the idea of the little necklace being a reliable safety measure. After it saved his life during his duel, Viktor has come to rely on the unspoken promise of protection that lay underneath his clothes at all times.

During the attack on the banquet hall, Viktor had felt panic for his mother’s wellbeing, anger that someone was defiling the sanctity of his home, but he hadn’t been afraid of the invisible force that struck down dozens of his people.

When Viktor had thought his army would be riding against a Great Mage without any magical aid on their side, his biggest fear was riding back as the sole survivor of a magical attack that wiped out his army around him.

Viktor had almost forgotten how unsettling it feels to walk into a fight with nothing more than the fervent hope that he won’t come across a magic user as his protection.

Objectively, he had known exactly what he was doing by handing the charm back to Yuuri, had known how vulnerable he was potentially making himself, but the closer they get to their goal the more apprehensive Viktor feels.

Someone knocks on his door and through the wood, Viktor can pick out Christophe’s voice as his friend softly calls, “It’s time.”

“Be right out,” Viktor calls back.

With no more time to be introspective, Viktor picks up his cloak from the small bed and twirls it onto his shoulders. When it’s settled, he pauses in front of the window, using the frost over the glass panes to study what little he can make out of his reflection. Carefully scanning the folds of his cloak, Viktor is pleased to note that the charm Yuuri sewed onto the inside lining isn’t visible.

Tugging the hood over his head, Viktor pulls on his gloves and sets out the door, nodding in greeting to Christophe and Seung-gil who are lounging in the hallway. They set off without a word to each other, making their way out of the inn and into the winter evening. Only when the inn is firmly behind them and there is no danger of eavesdropping does anyone speak up.

“Mila and Yuuri left thirty minutes ago,” Christophe murmurs as they trek through the snowfall, “they should be reaching the servant’s gate any minute now with the very beginning of the night crowd. If everything goes to plan they’ll be at the mage’s door by the time we’re inside the manor.”

Glancing to his left, Viktor catches Seung-gil’s gaze. “How did Yuuri seem?”

The other man shrugs, his expression just as difficult to read as it always is, his eyes faced forward, ceaselessly scanning the terrain ahead of them. During their time planning for the attack and the ride south, Viktor hadn’t been able to get a good read on the Ayutthayan soldier but Seung-gil’s genuine friendship with Yuuri is enough to be reassuring.

“He was quiet when they set out,” Seung-gil replies, “looked a little pale but nothing to be concerned about.” There is a slight pause before Seung-gil adds, “He’ll handle his end of things, we just need to focus on ours.”

It sounds almost like a warning and Viktor presses his lips into a thin line at the implication that he is less than focused on the task ahead. “Everyone will do their part, I’m confident on that.”

Gray eyes flick to meet Viktor’s for no more than a second before returning to their study of their surroundings. Seung-gil shrugs again but doesn’t comment and Viktor finds himself wondering, yet again, what possessed Prince Chulanont to send his least talkative and most unsettling retainer back to the capital with Yuuri.

Or, perhaps, considering how cutthroat Prince Chulanont had been in his protection of Yuuri, that is exactly why Seung-gil was sent to watch Yuuri’s back.

Finding his thoughts veering back into dangerous territory—or at least in a direction that will be distracting at a time when Viktor can’t afford to be off his game—he shakes his head slightly to clear it of thoughts of Yuuri and turns his attention to their destination.

The light flurries of snow decrease visibility just enough to turn the manor occupied by the Atreides army into an indistinct silhouette, which is just as well. Being unable to see the exact details of their destination means the guards on watch won’t notice three lone figures approaching from a different direction than the army encampment. By the time they are close enough to be noticed through the snowfall, Viktor, Christophe, and Seung-gil have slipped into the small crowd trekking to the manor.

It’s eerily silent among the Atreides soldiers.

In Viktor’s own army, the soldiers are all fairly lively when not on-duty. There are jokes and spirited conversations and occasionally a drinking song or two; even with the looming reality of facing an army twice their size, the Kievan soldiers had still been spirited at every opportunity.

The Atreides soldiers are like shells of people. Glancing around, Viktor takes note of pale faces, sunken cheeks, and dull eyes. There doesn’t seem to be a single person around them with so much as a spark of hope despite the fact that there are reinforcements marching north this very second to strike back at Kiev when the snows melt. And while he can’t dismiss the impact seeing over a hundred thousand of their fellows killed by a mage in an instant, Viktor can’t attribute their lifeless attitude to just Yuuri’s deed alone.

Mila had reported, when the army first invaded, that most of Menelaus’ troops were conscripted soldiers and Viktor is seeing firsthand what an army of soldiers fighting against their will looks like.

It makes his stomach turn.

These aren’t the blood-thirsty, power-hungry, conquerors that everyone envisions when the Atreides Empire is discussed. These are those who have lost: who lost their homes, perhaps their families, and their independence. Whose only chance at survival is tearing those same things away from others under the command of the man who likely orchestrated the slaughter of their countrymen.

They don’t want to be in Kiev any more than Viktor wants them here.

A strong rush of disdain rushes through Viktor and he clenches his jaw, dragging his gaze away from those milling around him to the manor now looming over him. Inside, there is a man fashioning himself the prince of the Atreides Empire with no regard for the lives and wellbeing of his subjects outside of their capacity to help him grab power and destroy other sovereigns.

Viktor knows more than enough about Menelaus and his fighting skills not to grossly underestimate the other man but Viktor has every intention of making sure Menelaus’ power-mongering ways stop here.

Bringing one hand to the sword concealed under his cloak, Viktor grasps the hilt and squeezes tightly for a moment before letting go.

If Viktor had needed anymore resolve to handle this mission, he has just found it in spades. As the group enters the gates of the manor, he casts his gaze around the nearly empty courtyard, pleased to notice no signs of an alarm having been raised (indicating that Mila and Yuuri got inside with little trouble). The few guards who look in the direction of the group don’t make eye contact with Viktor, instead, their gaze slides right over him as if he isn’t there at all and he doesn’t bother to bite back a smile at how effective Yuuri’s charm is.

Getting through the servant’s entrance is relatively slow going due to the guards only letting in groups of ten at one time in order to keep track of who is let in. Christophe leads their way to the door, Seung-gil next to him, both of their hoods away from their faces. Even if no one recognizes them as fellow fighters, the fact that both men come from kingdoms already conquered by the Atreides army makes them just two among dozens of other conscripted soldiers from conquered kingdoms. Keeping his eyes down, Viktor walks between the two men, breath stuck in his throat as he waits for the guards to survey their group of thirteen.

After what feels like a century, they’re waved through and Viktor lets out the breath he was holding.

The servant’s entrance goes straight through the kitchens, and as soon as they’re inside, the trio detaches from the main group to hide in a storage closet identified by Mila during her earlier reconnaissance into the manor.

With the door firmly closed behind them, Viktor pushes his hood away from his face, watching Seung-gil as he carefully scans the room around them.

It only takes a moment for the soldier to nod. “They made it here, Yuuri left a faint trace of his magic in this room to signal us.” Stepping up to a shelf, Seung-gil picks up a jar of honey, studying it closely. “My best guess is that they were in here about half-an-hour ago.”

“Right on schedule,” Viktor muses, wondering just what kind of magic Yuuri did to a jar of honey for Seung-gil to be able to tell them this. Yuuri had said Seung-gil’s ability to see magic was unparalleled but it’s difficult to wrap his head around the concept that there is so much more to be gleaned in this room than Viktor’s own senses can detect.

“Then we don’t have any time to waste,” Christophe adds, “I don’t know about you two but something about this manor is making my skin crawl.”

“It’s the mage,” Seung-gil replies, putting the honey down to cast his gaze around the room again. “You’re sensing the malice in her magic, it looks like it has leaked around the manor, even people with no affinity for magic would be able to sense it. Though…” Seung-gil trails off, frowning at the closet door, “there is something odd about the malice itself.”

“Odd?”

“It isn’t consistent, there are fluctuations that also impact the magical signature.” Viktor glances at the door, seeing nothing but wood despite how Seung-gil seems to be able to read essays off of the dark brown grain. “Almost as if…” he cuts himself off with the shake of his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “We should get moving, now.”

The sudden change in topic, the sudden harshness in Seung-gil’s tone, catches Viktor off-guard and he stares at the other man. “Is something wrong?”

“If we do our job quickly there shouldn’t be,” Seung-gil says, “and we can’t do anything about it anyways, let’s go.”

Christophe glances at Viktor, quirking an eyebrow and Viktor shrugs in response. As much as he wants to press Seung-gil about whatever weird magical thing is going on, Seung-gil is likely right about them being unable to do anything about it. Right now, they have to trust that Yuuri knows what he’s doing and handle their own business.

Tugging the hood of his cloak back over his head, Viktor says, “He’s right, let’s move.”

Opening the door to the closet, Christophe sticks his head outside before waving the other two men into the hallway. They set off down the corridor to their left, moving as quietly as they can through the nearly empty halls.

There is something deeply unnerving about being in the heart of enemy territory that Viktor has never experienced before. Each patrol they pass is the one he is certain will identify them as impostors, each noise that sounds around a corner is an upcoming ambush in the paranoia of Viktor’s mind, and it takes every ounce of discipline in his body to keep his eyes downcast and to keep himself as small as possible, to not draw attention to himself when all of he wants is for the fighting to break out so he is finally in familiar territory.

Seung-gil leads the way, his own footsteps nearly silent as he strides through the manor as if he is meant to be there, his eyes narrowed just slightly as he follows a beacon that is invisible to Christophe and Viktor until he stops in the middle of a corridor in the northwestern corner of the manor.

Nodding to a door just steps away from them and watched by two guards, he murmurs, “That’s it. He’s in there.”

Recalling the hours spent studying the blueprints for the manor, Viktor muses, “It’s a practice room so he’s probably already armed.”

“Nothing for it, then,” Christophe says, striding forward as his arms reach across his body and dip into the opening of his cloak. “We might as well announce ourselves now.”

The guards notice Christophe’s approach and one calls out for him to identify himself. Christophe is on them in the next breath, his blades flashing in the torchlight to cut their throats. The two guards are collapsed on the ground at Christophe’s feet by the time Viktor and Seung-gil catch up.

“Odds on the chances of there being a bunch of fighters inside?” Christophe asks.

Viktor stares at the doors, considering what he knows of the prince inside. “Slim to none.”

“Then we should say hello,” Christophe replies with a grin. “Do you mind, Seung-gil? My hands are a little full.”

Rolling his eyes at Christophe’s antics, Seung-gil steps up to the doors and pushes them open, Viktor and Christophe following him inside.

The room is quiet and nearly barren. Hooks on the side wall meant for weapons are all but empty and most of the training equipment seems to have pushed to one side to make more room in the middle for sword drills.

And, just like Viktor predicted, there is no one else in the room beside the man standing in the center, sword slowly lowering to point at the ground as he eyes the group filing inside the room.

Prince Menelaus’ eyes are a pale blue, unnervingly similar in color to Viktor’s own, and as they scan the group Viktor thinks he can see the prince running calculations, trying to understand what is going on before a word is said. His gaze flicks past Viktor, to where Viktor knows the bodies of the guards outside are still visible through the closing doors, before his jaw tightens and his stance shifts just slightly, anticipating a fight.

As the doors slide shut behind them with a resounding thud and Seung-gil clicks the lock, Menelaus says, “I must say, I never expected Nikiforov to be quite so spineless as to send assassins to try and take care of me.”

“Spineless is not a word I would use to describe the king, Christophe says as Viktor unsheathes his sword and continues walking forward, eyes fixed on his target as he walks, letting his concerns about everyone else fall aside in the face of his goal.

“Oh?” Menelaus asks, sounding amused as a cold smile curls on his lips. “What other word describes a king who resorts to such underhanded tactics in the midst of a war.”

“You of all people have no business calling the tactics of others underhanded,” Viktor says, “sending conscripted soldiers to die in a foreign land for a kingdom that stole their freedom while you sit back in the command tent is spineless itself.”

Menelaus stares at Viktor, eyes narrowing as he watches Viktor get closer and closer until Viktor stops a sword length away from him—the traditional distance for the start of a duel.

“If you plan to fight me you should stop hiding under your hood.”

Without a word, Viktor reaches up and undoes the clasp of his cloak. A single tug has the garment falling away from his form and he tosses it to the side.

Menelaus lets out a low whistle, his grin widening into something almost manic. “King Nikiforov, you honor me. I never dreamed that you would hand me the chance to cut off your head myself.”

Inclining his head in greeting, Viktor replies, “Surely you didn’t think we would sit back and wait for your reinforcements to arrive?”

“With that mage at your disposal, it seemed a likely possibility.” Menelaus scans the other two fighters in the room before he chuckles, “I take it he is here as well? Paying a visit to my own mage, perhaps?”

“You really shouldn’t concern yourself with anything that may or may not be happening outside this room seeing as you won’t be leaving as long as we stand here.”

Hoisting his blade higher, Menelaus says, “Feel free to drop your flowery words and royal dignity, Majesty, it won’t do you much good here. It certainly didn’t do your dear mother much good.”

Anger courses through Viktor’s veins, red-hot and dangerous and he shoves it back down into his body as deep as it can go. He can’t afford to lose his temper here, can’t afford to rise to this man’s taunts or bait.

Shifting his grip on his own blade, Viktor replies, “If you surrender and withdraw your troops immediately we will not order a pursuit. There is no need for more people to lose their lives tonight.”

“Your honorable disposition does a credit to your name if not to your kingdom. I take it the two guards at your back have orders not to interfere?”

“They’re here as witnesses and to intervene if your own people try to get involved,” Viktor confirms. “We don’t require their assistance to defeat you.”

Menelaus laughs. It’s full-bodied and sharp and sends a slight chill down Viktor’s spin at the realization that this man isn’t merely power-hungry but also blood-thirsty, perhaps a little bit insane.

Gritting his teeth, he shifts his feet into a proper fighting stance just as the enemy prince moves, throwing himself across the distance between them with his sword swinging up and down in a blindingly fast arc. Viktor blocks the blow, biting back a wince at how the force of Menelaus’ strike reverberates through his bones, threatening to make his arm go numb if he takes to many such hits head on.

Disengaging, Viktor pivots, slicing his own blade horizontally at an aim for Menelaus’ gut that hits nothing but air as the prince steps out of reach and lunges in to take advantage of Viktor’s overextension.

Menelaus’ sword crashes against the ground with a screech of metal on stone as Viktor drops and rolls to avoid the strike, his heartbeat pounding in his ears at the realization that, for the first time in a long time, he is facing a sword-fighter every bit as skilled in this art as he is.

Jumping to his feet, Viktor turns to face Menelaus, trying to ignore the nerves starting to creep in as the full scope of his current circumstances hit him.

If he loses here, if he dies here, nothing will be able to stand in the way between this man and the kingdom Viktor has sworn to protect.

The wild grin is back on the enemy prince’s face as he lazily twirls his blade in his grip. “What’s wrong, Your Majesty? All those peacetime duels didn’t prepare you for facing a knight with years of campaign experience under his belt? I would offer you a chance to surrender but I’m much more partial the idea of seeing how panicked you’ll look when you realize my sword is about to end your life.”

With that, he launches back into the fight, sword swinging through the air with such ferocity Viktor thinks he can feel its hunger for his blood.

 

* * *

 

It must have been at least five minutes since they last came across another person and the emptiness of the manor corridor sets Yuuri on edge.

He knows why they haven’t come across anyone else, why the mage is evidently isolated in an unused corner of the manor. It has to do with the way the presence of her magic strengthens the closer they get to her chambers. Even if no one else in the building can See the dull red clouds that float above their heads, just beneath the ceiling like smoke refusing to clear, they can feel their presence. The anger and hatred are so potent that Yuuri thinks it might make him sick and he can’t help but glance up at the increasingly brighter magical residue as they walk.

“Is there something up there?” Mila’s voice is soft but what catches Yuuri’s attention the most is how calm she sounds.

Glancing at her, Yuuri notes that Mila isn’t even looking in his direction, too busy keeping an eye on their surroundings for any possible attacks. Her face is serene in its expression as if they’re on just another stroll through the castle corridors rather than infiltrating a manor occupied by their enemies.

Taking his silence as confusion, Mila presses, “You keep looking at the ceiling, is there something up there to be concerned about?”

“Not really,” Yuuri replies, “but you can sense it, can’t you?”

“If you’re referring to the way that the further down this hallway we walk the more unnerving this place feels then yes, I can sense it. What is it?”

“It’s her magic. Most mages have to actively suppress their magical signature to keep it from leaking everywhere they go, she doesn’t seem to bother with that.”

Mila frowns slightly, glancing at Yuuri. “Why does it feel like this? Is that normal?”

“No.” Yuuri looks back up at the ceiling for a moment before turning his attention down the hall, peering down the dimly light corridor. “I’ve never come across something like this. She has a lot of anger and she uses it to motivate her magic usage, any mage instructor would tell you that’s an unhealthy practice.”

“Seems to have worked for her thus far,” Mila muses. “Has she noticed you yet?”

Shaking his head, Yuuri says, “Not yet, I’ve been cloaking my presence and I can barely sense her myself, she won’t notice I’m here until we’re at her door.” He hesitates, then adds, “If things start to get ugly you need to run for it. I might not be able to protect you.”

“Worry about yourself, Yuuri,” is the dry retort, “I know how to keep myself alive.”

Letting out a huff, Yuuri mumbles, “Considering how up in arms everyone was after the queen’s death I was expecting the magic threat to be taken more seriously.”

Glancing over at Yuuri, Mila says, “I wanted him to keep the charm as much as you did but he was adamant. Guess that says something about how seriously he’s taking the threat that he doesn’t want to risk distracting you at all. Besides, if this mage wastes time going after me when she has you to contend with she’s an idiot and we wouldn’t be in this mess if our enemies were idiots.”

She makes a valid point, enough of one to keep Yuuri from voicing anymore protests about how she and Viktor handle themselves during the operation. Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, Yuuri squints down the hall, lazily filtering through the increasingly bright colors that flood the empty air.

Thanks to Seung-gil he’s able to discard the magical traces that aren’t relevant for his work today, able to filter his Sight to suit his needs in a way he never was before meeting the other man. His glasses, safely tucked in his saddlebags at the inn, would have made it impossible for Yuuri to pick out the nuanced spells in front of them, would have kept him from recognizing the alarm triggers and bypassing them, would have made this walk a lot more treacherous.

Yuuri lets himself relax into the flow of this work, barely magic but enough to make him more familiar with the mage’s signature and casting style, to keep him alert, to remember that he can do this.

All too soon they’re standing outside a set of double doors.

“Yuuri,” Mila speaks up before he can reach for the handles and he pauses, turning to make eye contact, “regardless of how powerful that mage is, the only way she comes out of this victorious is if you let her, and I won’t let you do that. Got it?”

A smile tugs at the corner of Yuuri’s lips. Somehow Mila’s tone manages to be a mixture of a warning and a pep talk, a “you can do it or else” message that seems to perfectly encapsulate the weird friendship they’ve stumbled into.

“I understand. Thanks, Mila,” Yuuri replies.

He waits for her nod before turning back to the door. Taking a deep breath, Yuuri reaches out and pushes the doors open. Sweltering heat rolls out of the room, no doubt the doing of the dozens of braziers stationed at different points around the room. As Yuuri steps inside, Mila at his back, he realizes that Romanov’s study back in the capital is as much a product of this mage as it was of Romanov.

There are charms everywhere. Dangling from various hooks on the wall, from the cross sections of the braziers, and splayed on tables. A pair of trunks close to the doors are overflowing with books, the names that Yuuri can make out belonging tomes he didn’t know existed or that he thought had vanished into legend hundreds of years ago. In the center of the room is a large table with open journals scattered on its surface and various magical implements: among other things, Yuuri picks out containers of dried herbs and materials for charm-making. He sees a handful of weapons as well, glittering a faint red in his Sight that indicates the mage may have spelled them much like the dagger that almost took Viktor’s life.

For all that this space is a temporary one for the mage, that the army plans to continue riding north and (presumably) leave the manor behind empty and destroyed, it exudes the same kind of sensation as Romanov’s study had, an energy of chaotic academia.

The mage is nowhere in sight.

Doors to the left and to the right lead to a bedchamber and servant’s chambers respectively, both solely used by the mage according to Mila’s information. Moving further into the room, Yuuri lightly drags his hands across the objects he passes, a tingling sensation running up from the pads of his fingers along his arm whenever he touches something the mage spelled, the malice interlaced in her magic nipping at his skin as he moves.

Mila, ever focused on learning as much as possible as quickly as possible, moves ahead of Yuuri. He notes that she’s careful not to touch anything on the mage’s desk, using the corner of her cloak to shift one of the journals so it’s easier for her to skim its contents.

“I’m not an expert in magical notation,” Mila murmurs, “but it looks like it might be a spell? Your name is in here, like she’s working on something to use against you.”

“Wouldn’t be surprising,” Yuuri replies, eyes narrowed as he stares at the door to the left, feeling something beyond the heavy wood.

“Yuuri, there are two sets of handwriting in here,” the statement tugs Yuuri’s gaze away from the doors to where Mila stands and he swiftly crosses over to the desk to study the journal.

One set of handwriting is familiar. Yuuri spent too many days reading about increasingly disturbing experiments documented by that hand, thinks he will have the memory of the mage’s scratchy letters seared into his mind. But, just like Mila said, there is another distinct set of handwriting, this one more elegant as loops and curls rise and fall from the letters in a style reminiscent of a court scribe.

“Does that mean…?” Mila doesn’t finish her question, she doesn’t have to.

Yuuri doesn’t reply either, his jaw clenched as he stares at the journal without seeing anything. Instead, he pictures the vision his dreamscape created just the previous evening, the voiceless wolf staring him down.

If it means what he thinks it does-

The door leading to the bedchamber swings open and Yuuri’s gaze flies up from the journal to meet the dead-eyed stare that he has tried his best to forget for weeks.

Unlike when they last met, the plain black cloak that hid her body is gone. In its place, the mage wears a dress in a rusty red hue, looking for all the world like she might belong in such a manor under different circumstances. Raven black hair falls down her back, a stark contrast to how deathly pale her skin is. With a jolt, Yuuri realizes that she must have been born in Yamatai, that she might have provided aid to the Atreides Empire as they conquered his home kingdom (and her own).

Her eyes shift to fix on Mila, carefully roving the spymaster before, evidently, dismissing her as a threat and turning back to Yuuri. It’s impossible to tell what the mage is thinking as she steps further into the room, letting the door at her back swing shut, the rustle of her skirts and the crackling of the braziers the only noise in the room.

Yuuri isn’t sure where he wants to look the least: her gaze or her lips, the jagged sewing job across her mouth just as nauseating as he remembers it.

_This is certainly unexpected, Katsuki._

At his side, he feels Mila tense up. It is one thing to know that the mage speaks directly into your head, it is another thing entirely to experience it and, judging by the way Mila’s hands clench into fists at her side, she absolutely hates this particular aspect of their enemy.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Yuuri replies, relieved when his voice comes out evenly, as if he has nothing to fear from this woman. “I don’t know your name.”

The corner of her mouth twitches in amusement, causing the slightest tear of the skin closest to where the movement happened, drops of blood welling up from her stitches. Yuuri flinches.

 _I wondered if Isidora succeeded in erasing me entirely from her court. My name is Kiyomi, though I’m not sure how my name matters to you considering that one of us won’t be leaving this room alive._ Kiyomi tilts her head, eyes narrowed slightly as she comes to a stop just out of arm’s reach from where Yuuri and Mila stand. _That is why you’re here, isn’t it, child? To kill me or be killed by me?_

“Your actions don’t leave me any other choice.”

A wheezing laugh echoes through Yuuri’s skull and he bites back a wince, unwilling to show just how unsettling he finds her presence.

_To think you would grow out of your pacifism so quickly. It must be the influence of Nikiforov, that entire house breeds killers._

Scowling, Yuuri replies, “You’re one to talk. How many hundreds have you killed? How many did you kill for that?” he taps on his lips with his last question.

 _How many did I kill when I gave up my voice?_ Kiyomi repeats, amusement somehow clear in her words. _That is the only time I kept track of the body count. Every other life I’ve taken belonged to a human, I can’t say they’re worth the trouble of counting seeing how they keep springing up, how fragile they are, how inferior they are._

Her gaze flicks to Mila at that and Yuuri tenses as he Sees her magic spread out from her to lazily blow through Mila’s hair but otherwise leave the other woman unharmed. Glancing quickly at Mila, Yuuri notes the clench of her jaw and the way her face has lost a little color, indicating that she is (rightly) unnerved by the mage but unwilling to be intimidated.

Kiyomi continues talking as if nothing occurred, her gaze going unfocused as she muses, _Killing mages, however, is different. It’s trickier to get them, particularly if they’re powerful. The cost is higher, enough to be worth my spoken voice for the rest of my life. But how many did I kill?_ A twisted grin spreads across her face, the mage seemingly not bothered by how it tears at the skin on her lips, by how blood starts to trickle down her chin. _You tell me, Katsuki, how many mages were living in Serenity at the time it went up in flames?_

He can’t breathe.

Kiyomi’s words slither through his skull, dive deep into his chest and suck the air straight from his lungs and Yuuri can’t fucking breathe. Stumbling back a step, his hand flies out to steady himself, using the table by his side as he stares at her, stares at the woman responsible for killing his family, for destroying his home, for ripping away the childhood he deserved to have, for stealing so much light and happiness and magic from the world.

All these years, Yuuri has lived in hiding, hating himself for surviving the fire that killed his family, hating himself for being too weak to save anyone, hating his magic for reminding him of the life he once had. He has restricted himself to basic healing, to only practicing the bare minimum he needed to survive (afraid of drawing the attention of whoever had attacked Serenity) and now the person responsible is just out of touching distance, staring at him with a bloody smile and eyes like death.

A hand reaches into the corner of his vision and grabs his own, fingers lacing between his as Mila squeezes gently, trying to be reassuring, trying to ground Yuuri. He can feel her concerned look, can sense her running the numbers, wondering if it would be better to retreat and try again when Yuuri has more time to process this.

Yuuri is done running away.

“Why?” this time, his question comes out slightly strangled, his voice cracking on the single syllable. “Why did you do that? Why kill all those mages if you’re so focused on creating a society of magical supremacy?”

_Isn’t it obvious? Hiroko would have learned what I was trying to do eventually and she would have tried to stop me. And all those others? Mindless sheep blinded by the title of ‘Magic Keeper’ by the lineage of the Katsuki clan. If I wanted to succeed I needed to get them all before they thought to come after me._

“You think my mother would have sent people after you? Ordered your death?”

 _No. She would have killed me herself,_ Kiyomi’s smile shrinks into a smirk. _Isn’t that what you’re here to do? Even without her guiding hand, you’re following in her footsteps. She must be so proud from whatever life exists beyond this one._

Shaking his head, Yuuri snaps, “All my mother ever taught me was that magic shouldn’t be used for harm. That’s what everyone in Serenity believed.”

_Of course that’s what she taught you, you were never meant to be Magic Keeper, that title goes to the first-born, it belonged to your sister. But you’re an adult now, are you really naive enough to think that the Magic Keeper never killed? That they were always able to handle so-called ‘rogue’ mages without resorting to violence? That’s how your family works, boy, the rules apply to everyone else. No killing unless you’re the Magic Keeper. No handling the elements unless you are a Katsuki. Your clan was built on a history of hypocrisy, they got what was coming to them in the end._

There is truth in her words, and Yuuri hates admitting it. He knows, has told others without hesitation, that the technique of handling the elements was kept secret to give the Katsuki family a magical advantage against possible attacks (making a family of Great Mages even more powerful than they probably had any right to be). But he has also seen Phichit master the technique, has been teaching Yurio the same, even if that is how his family used to manage mage society, he isn’t a carbon copy of those mages, he didn’t get the chance to be thoroughly taught the ‘Katsuki’ way.

He is different, his own person, and he’s not going to let Kiyomi poison so much as another living being with her twisted words and extremist world-view.

Tugging on the hand still clasped with Mila’s, Yuuri pulls her so she’s standing behind him, squeezing once in warning before withdrawing his grip.

Behind him, Mila murmurs so softly that he doubts Kiyomi hears what she says, “Kick her ass, Yuuri.”

Grinning slightly at the encouragement, Yuuri turns his focus inward to the magic swirling in his core. Drawing on it, he lets the magic race through his body, filling every corner and crevice of his being, shooting down to the tips of his toes and floating through his skull until he feels electric with the magnitude of its power.

Kiyomi’s eyes widen slightly, the smirk vanishing from her face as she rapidly draws on her own magic, trying to pull together a defense faster than Yuuri can create his attack.

Murmuring under his breath, Yuuri proposes the exchange waiting only as long as it takes for him to feel the slight shudder go down his spine, an indication of the exchange being accepted.

The spell explodes from the palm of his hands, making contact and flinging the other mage back like she weighs nothing at all to slam her against the far wall. At the last second, Yuuri sees a spark of red magic blunting her crash enough that she’s able to pull herself to her feet almost immediately. Doubled over, black-webbed hand propped against the wall for support, Kiyomi laughs.

Yuuri wants to block the sound from his head but has no idea how to do it as the laughter rings in his skull, fracturing his concentration.

_It has been a long time since I felt the might of Katsuki mage. There is no doubting your heritage, you should hope it serves you better than it did your own family._

Pain flares through Yuuri’s body, starting in his chest and shooting outward as if someone stabbed hundreds of needles through his skin to scratch against his ribcage and is now slowly tugging them back. Crying out, he wraps an arm around his gut, trying to think through the sheer torment as the pain steadily gets worse, as Kiyomi’s magic latches onto his body and rips at it from the inside out.

His magic burns under his skin like a cleansing fire, tearing through the worst of the pain just long enough for him to grab the dagger on the table next to him and launch himself across the room, blade swinging in an arc. Kiyomi ducks away at the last second but Yuuri’s body remembers the hours of practice under Minako’s watchful eye and swings with the mage, slicing the skin of her neck too shallow to have an impact but deep enough for Kiyomi to taste her own death, dragging her concentration away from her spell on Yuuri for a split-second, which is all the time Yuuri needs to tear through the spell and cast it off of himself.

Stumbling back from her, Yuuri struggles to catch his breath.

This is unlike anything he has ever experienced before. He can taste his own mortality in the electric current running between them, can feel the other mage’s magic warping the air like some sort of pollutant.

One wrong move is all it will take for her to get the upper hand.

But something became obvious the second she dropped control of her spell on Yuuri, it’s even more obvious in the way her entire body is oriented away from him, the way her eyes are fixed on Yuuri warily, the scratch of her nails against the wall by her side, the clutch of her free hand around the cut on her throat rapidly turning blue from whatever spell she placed on the steel.

Kiyomi hadn’t lied in her journals—they were meant for her eyes only, there was no reason for her to lie. She is no Great Mage and Yuuri can feel the difference in their power: if it weren’t for her years of experience in killing and fighting this wouldn’t be a challenge for Yuuri at all.

She had written that, under the Law of Original Exchange, she could barely kill two humans at any one time. Yuuri killed that many on his ride to the capital with Seung-gil and was able to do more magic immediately.

This mage is clever, is well-practiced, is determined to end Yuuri’s life here, but she’s not strong enough to overpower him.

Straightening to his full height, Yuuri pushes away from the wall and flicks his eyes to the windows along the far end of the room.

The shutters burst open with a gust of wind, snowflakes dancing along the freezing current as it rips through the room to circle around Yuuri like a living shield.

Eyes widening, magic streams from Kiyomi’s fingertips in Yuuri’s direction only to be dispelled the moment it hits his windy barrier. More shutters fly open, some dropping from their hinges to splinter on the stone floor, all bringing the winter cold to every corner of the room, dimming the flames in the braziers and pushing back the overwhelming heat around them.

“Kiyomi, you are guilty of breaking the laws of magical society,” Yuuri begins, his voice soft but growing louder with each word as he directs his magic, shifting its form and adjusting its intensity in the palm of his hand, the golden light only visible to those with Sight steadily being overtaken by an actual glow. “You have used your magic to bring harm to countless individuals, to create and spread fear of magekind among humanity, and to experiment on innocent souls for the sake of bypassing the rules set in place by Katsuki Asami to maintain balance within our world.”

She hurls spells at him, an ugly snarl twisting her face, further tearing her stitches, as she backs away from Yuuri, fear tangible in the air around her.

“You have confessed to destroying the center of magical society—Serenity—and to the murder of the sixty-four mages who called Serenity their home, including the Magic Keeper,” Yuuri continues, lifting his hand as the golden glow circles his fingertips, stark against the blackened scars that will likely never fade.

Closing his eyes, Yuuri proposes his exchange and smiles when it is accepted. Blinking his eyes open, Yuuri pins Kiyomi with his gaze, drinking in the hatred he finds there, using it as a cautionary tale for himself—this is not an act of revenge for it would taint his magic in the same way that this mage’s magic is tainted. Just as Yuuri no longer wants to be ruled by fear, he has no desire to be driven by hatred like this woman was.

“By my name, Katsuki Yuuri, as the last living member of the Katsuki clan, I acknowledge and commit your crimes to memory. I vow to turn my attention to righting the wrongs you have wrought through the misuse of magic. I sentence you to death.”

Light explodes in Yuuri’s palm, blinding in its intensity as the magic leaves his grasp to fly across the room.

A scream rips through the night, inhuman in its timbre and ferocity, more reminiscent of a badly wounded wild animal than any noise a person could make. Yuuri doesn’t let up, forcing more magic through his body, concentrating it down his arm, to his palm and out to burn through the wayward mage.

When the light fades away, Yuuri passes his hand through the wind circling around him, dispersing it and letting it rush back out the open windows. As the room drops away into stillness and silence, Yuuri’s gaze falls on his target, taking in the way her body is crumpled gracelessly on the floor, her eyes wide and unseeing. Her mouth is torn to shreds, jaw slack, painting a vivid picture that Yuuri is relieved to have been spared witnessing.

“You can come out now,” Yuuri says, half-turning to pick out where Mila had taken cover underneath the central table.

Slowly, Mila emerges, her face pale as she takes in Yuuri’s appearance, “Not going to lie, Yuuri, you’re a little bit frightening when you stop holding back.”

Dropping his hand to his side, Yuuri squeezes his fingers into a fist and flexes them in turn, trying to bring some of the feeling back to a hand gone numb due to the sheer amount of power that had burst from inside of it. “That’s why I hold back. There shouldn’t be a need for me to use this much power, and I don’t want people to look at me and only see my magic.”

Blue eyes shift from Yuuri’s face to where the mage’s corpse is sprawled, “Let’s hope things went somewhat smoothly on Viktor’s end.” Turning to study the room, she muses, “It’s a shame we have to leave, I’m sure there’s plenty in here we could learn from.”

Yuuri’s response dies on his tongue as something catches his attention. Pivoting on his heel, he stares at the doors that lead to the corridor and the rest of the manor. His gut churns, adrenaline courses through his veins once again as his fight or flight instinct kicks into overdrive.

Malice is rolling down the corridor, preceding an even set of footsteps.

Suddenly, the nagging itch in the corner of Yuuri’s mind flares into a conscious thought. The wolf’s mouth opens and closes only this time he can remember the sound that came from its jaws, can remember the smooth cadence of a voice, a man’s voice, and the words that were spoken to him: _"I must say, I never expected this."_

“Mila, are there any other exits out of this room?” Yuuri asks.

“There’s a side-corridor that leads out of the servant’s chambers, why?”

Flicking his fingers in that direction, Yuuri’s magic flings the door open. “You need to go, now.”

“What are you talking about? She’s dead. If soldiers are coming I can hold my own.”

Meeting her gaze, Yuuri tries to make it clear just how serious he is. “Two sets of handwriting, Mila, you said it yourself. You need to go, now. Get out of here, rendezvous with Viktor, if I don’t make it out of here by sunrise you need to ride hard for the capital and get a message to Phichit about what happened.”

“You’re not making any sense, Yuuri.”

Out of time to argue with her, Yuuri lifts his scarred hand and waves it in the direction of the servant’s chambers. Mila yelps as she’s shoved across the room and through the doors without her permission, shouting protests at Yuuri until the door thuds shut behind her and the lock clinks down. Rapidly, Yuuri weaves a barrier spell to keep anyone from using that door.

At his back, as if sensing his panic, the braziers whose flames had dwindled down to embers burst back up to their full heights, crackling madly.

“Yuuri!” Mila bangs on the door, “let me back through!”

Another wave in the direction of the door has the braziers stationed on either side falling down, landing with metallic clangs on the floor. The flames immediately catch onto the rug underfoot and rapidly spread, eating away at the tapestries hanging on either side of the frame, making the door so hot that he can hear Mila curse and back away.

“Go, Mila! You can’t do anything more here!”

“Yuuri!”

The door leading the corridor bursts open and Yuuri whirls to face it, stumbling backward at the sheer might of magic that rushes toward him. Red almost the same hue as Kiyomi’s own magic fills the breadth of the room, pressing on Yuuri from every side until it feels like he might collapse under the pressure.

He makes eye contact with the other mage just as that voice, the one that had floated from the wolf’s mouth so many months ago, murmurs, “My soul to yours. Your mind to mine.”

With a shout of protest, Yuuri feels the ground giving way underneath him as he’s forcibly tugged into the Great Mage’s dreamscape.

 

* * *

 

A plume of smoke cuts through the light snowfall, nearly pitch black in color as it rises from the manor housing the Atreides army and disperses into the sky. The previously pure white flakes that have blanketed the ground now fall in shades of grays, ash mixing in with the snow to muddy the white canvas below their feet.

Alarms are ringing throughout the compound, orders being shouted in Traveler that he can barely translate thanks to the chaos spreading through the ranks of soldiers, making their words difficult to parse out over the stomp of booted feet as they try to organize without a clear purpose.

But, interestingly, none of the fighters seem to be headed in the direction of the smoke. Instead, they flock away from it, as if being chased by a phantom, many of them racing out of the gates and through the snow in the direction of the army’s camp.

There is no structure, and it’s baffling to see considering how disciplined these very soldiers had been on the battlefield. It is almost like their commanding officer has completely vanished.

Or…perhaps the old man actually did it.

“What do you want to do?” the question comes from Yuri’s right and he glances over to meet Otabek’s gaze. The newly knighted noble has one hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, preparing for a fight, but his face is impassive.

For all the days they spent riding south, trailing after Viktor’s small party just out of sight, Yuri has relied on the older boy to call the shots. After all, Otabek has more battle experience, is an actual knight instead of a squire, and Yuri is the one who talked him into sneaking out of the capital city to track a top-secret operation.

The fact that Otabek is letting Yuri make the decision now makes Yuri’s nerves spike into overdrive. He knows what he wants to do on impulse. He wants to race into the manor and find Viktor and the others, wants to make sure everyone gets out in one piece.

But if there is one lesson from the old man that Yuri has slowly started taking to heart, it’s the danger of impulsive decision-making, particularly in situations like this. Even if they race to the gates and manage to sneak inside the compound, there is no way for Yuri to know where Viktor and the others are. Without that information, he’s more likely to be running straight to his death rather than to be of any assistance.

Swearing under his breath, Yuri drags his gaze away from the mess in the courtyard and the direction-less soldiers to study the plume of smoke, only getting darker the longer it is left unattended. He can see flames now, flickering out of the open windows of a room on the far end of the manor.

His eyes narrow.

The flicker of the flames is too spirited, too alive, for a normal fire. Rather than being reminiscent of the fires he and Otabek tended during their ride south, these flames remind Yuri of the stubborn ones that occupied Yuuri’s fireplace. The ones that were alive, reactive to people who know the language.

And, according to Yuuri, no one else alive knows how to handle the fire beside that foreign prince who left for his own kingdom months ago.

“Yuuri is in there,” Yuri says, feet moving toward the manor before he even registers his own decision to go, “and something is wrong, otherwise the flames would have died down by now.”

“We’re not going to be able to put out that fire by ourselves,” Otabek points out, rushing to follow him.

“We don’t need to,” Yuri mutters, “we just need to make a path to him and get him out in one piece.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Yuri meets his friend’s gaze, feeling the buzz of his own nerves fading behind a wall of pure adrenaline, feeling his own determination rush through his frame and leaving behind no room for doubt. “First, we get through the servant’s gate and cut down anyone who tries to stop us. When it comes to the fire, you won’t be able to do anything other than stick close to me.”

“That won’t make the fire magically part and give us a path.”

“It’s not magic,” Yuri mutters, repeating the words Yuuri told him, “I’m going to ask politely and hope it listens.”

“You’re going to…what?”

Breaking into a run, Yuri calls over his shoulder, “There isn’t time to explain. Either come along or go back to the inn, Beka!” There isn’t a response but Yuri picks out the sound of booted footsteps at his heels and he smothers a sigh of relief at his friend’s support. Glaring at the corner of the manor ablaze, Yuri mutters, “Keep yourself alive, storyteller. We’re coming to help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Songs: _Oblivion_ by Bastille and _Way Down We Go - Stripped_ by Kaleo.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are always appreciated either here or on [my tumblr!](http://lovingnikiforov.tumblr.com)


End file.
